A Lonely Place
by Opera Ghost Kid
Summary: And they say history is bunk. DCAU. R&R would be like a basket of kittens, sans shedding
1. Chapter 1: The Carnage

Disclaimer: DC characters property of DC Comics and DC Universe. I'm merely borrowing.

**A Lonely Place**

**Chapter 1**

May 19, 2010:

He should have been quicker. He should have lit the damn cave better. He should have made sure he got up safe. Why couldn't he have used the elevator? He should have made sure he did. All this could have been averted. Master of contingency plans, detective, strategist, fool. A Batman who protected his city and more, but couldn't even ensure the safety of his butler, his mentor, his...friend. Now he sat watch over the old man in a garishly bright hospital room, listening to the constant beeping from the monitors. The tubes coming from Alfred's arms and face looked unnatural, almost organic growths in themselves. Bruce was reminded of the last fight with Ra's Al Ghul and his stomach lurched. No, Alfred couldn't... he wouldn't. The voice that told him Thomas and Martha Wayne did, so many years ago, was pushed as violently out of his head as he could. It kept coming back though, snaking through his mind.

"Alfred... please.."

A low continuous beep was all that answered him. As nurses and doctors rushed into the room and past him, Bruce heard nothing, felt nothing. When the pronouncement came, he simply nodded and walked out of the building, not bothering to shield himself from the massive downpour that shattered through the streets of Gotham. As he drove back to the Mansion, Bruce ignored the buzzing of his cell phone. Missed call after missed call: Barbara, Jim, Dick, Tim, Selina, Clark, Diana, one after the other, the phone wouldn't stop ringing. The hallway stretched for miles before he reached the living area, his cell still buzzing in his pocket. All he could see was the green flatline of the monitor back in the intensive care treatment ward. He took the phone out, knuckles white as he gripped it. Clark. Now the house phone was ringing too, so deafeningly loud through the silence. He flung the cell phone at it, knocking it off its wire and sending both clattering into the gloom.

How long he sat there hunched by the side of the wall he did not know. Even when the dampness of his hair had all but disappeared, he still ascribed the wet droplets dripping off his chin to the rain.

* * *

2009:

The carnage was unbelievable. Clark Kent was used to his fair share of overturned tanks, exploding vehicles and toppling skyscrapers, but this could not even begin to compare to what he saw before him. Coast City had been completely obliterated. Ash rose from the streets in thick, agonised clouds. Mongul had been thorough. Horrifically so, as all Lanterns were too far from Earth, called away by a false emergency. They arrivied only when the mass of damage had been done to Hal Jordan's original home. The Green Lantern had plummeted like a stone through the sky, the shock rendering him unable to control his ring. Kyle Rayner had managed to catch hold of the grieving man before he crashed straight to the ground. It would have been no surprise to anyone if he went mad straight there and then, turned ballistic and destroy Star City where Green Arrow and a team of Leaguers had been deployed with great speed to counter the attacks of Parademons unleashed upon it by Granny Goodness. Darkseid's continued absence had only slowed the eventuality of another attack by Apokolips. Two hellish worlds teaming up against the blue green planet was a possibility to be expected, but it didn't stop the damage from being hard to take in.

It wasn't just the west coast either. Over the communicators the same was happening in Metropolis. The Metrotower provided enough resources to commit to that area, with more in the Watchtower against any Parademons who decided to go beyond the earth's surface which they had been beamed to via boom tubes. The strength of the League had been no match for the initial surprise attacks though. Clark clenched his jaw on remembering a comment Batman had made about it being 'too quiet recently', though the man had seemed glad for that, said it gave him added time to work on new equipment. Since the battle with Darkseid, Bruce had become all the more obsessed with harnessing technology in the face of rogue superpowers. Perhaps even before that, and Darkseid just made the necessity all the more apparent. He had passed off the comment as Bruce being characteristically pessimistic, who was to know how prophetic those words would be?

"Kal, Tokyo is being targeted as well, along with Singapore in South East Asia, I'm heading there now with Captain Atom and a few others. J'onn has sent others to Beijing, Dehli and Kasnia. Mainly flash raids and bombings by the looks of it. This all feels like it's distracting us from something bigger," Diana's voice through the comlink sounded as puzzled as it was strained.

"Some distraction, Diana! Bit big for that isn't it?" Flash's voice came up over the link.

Diana continued, "Why just go around committing mass destruction without any demands? Why not take over the Watchtower? They've all but ignored that. I don't like this." Superman did not like it either, but for now he concentrated his frustration on pounding the Parademons to dust. A yell echoed around him, and he saw Hal Jordan rise, bathed in green, sweeping his ring in an arc that caught the multitude of Parademons within the coast and sent them through a portal.

"Boom tube." He heard the Lantern say, "To the Source Wall. May they rot beyond even the comfort of hell."

Touching down beside Hal, Superman spoke, "We need to get to Metropolis, they seem to be concentrating their attack on there now. You don't have to come.. they need folk up in the Watchtower to help coordinate things as well." Give the guy distraction. Losing a city, losing a planet, it didn't matter, it was all the same, the same cutting devastation that threatened to wipe your mind. Hal looked up at him with a rueful smile.

"No Supes, it's alright. I'll stay here. Crowd control, damage control, you name it. Take the other Lanterns. With those over in Star City, we'll be fine here." A nod later a blue blur fading into the distance was all that was left of Superman.

The comlink crackled again. "I know what's going on," the dark voice of Batman came out a harsh growl.

"Brilliant, care to share?" the sound of frequencies changing could be heard as Mr. Terrific routed all Justice League communicators and announcement systems to Batman's comlink. His voice boomed over the speakers,

"It's our old friend Braniac, but this time he's found yet another person to team up with. My old friend, Ra's." The voice darkened further as it continued, "The project is called Apocalypse, I don't think I need to explain further. Any hands to spare should make their way to Gotham, stat. Batman out."

Supeman dived straight towards the blood red sky in the horizon. A battle through a dark stormy night, how fitting, he thought to himself as raced through the clouds towards the heart of Gotham. The dome of the Batplane zoomed into view, sleeker and faster than before.

"Nice plane. I see you've made some upgrades."

"You haven't seen anything yet." The dome opened and Batman jumped out with a jet pack on his back. Only he had no cape on, a metallic vest around his torso instead. Mid air, components shot out from it, wrapping around him to form a large exoskeleton in dark grey and black. He was soon flying alongside Superman.

"Or maybe you have, what with that x-ray vision of yours."

"Nice suit. Very big. No cape?"

"Unnecessary. We going to chat here all day or take down that part synthoid madman?"

"Have you any idea how much I hate that robot?"

Ra's Al Ghul stood surrounded by chaos, his daughter beside him. The metallic tentacles protruding from his body glowed an unearthly yellow, as if Braniac was feeding off the effects of the Lazarus pit's liquids itself. "The streets will run with blood as red as the sky. You, my pitiful Detective, will be crushed under my hand personally. And You, Kryptonian, will watch your world be destroyed, again."

"I've heard that speech before, freak. And you were defeated then, or didn't your memory banks store that piece of information too?" Superman grit out. Tentacles whipped out and stretched towards them, stabbing through the air and into the steel of buildings, causing them to release whiplash tentacles of their own.

"Defeat does not exist within my vocabulary. Failures are but a test of stratagem."

All around he could hear the Leaguers once again being mobilised, like the epic battle just a few years earlier. The Lanterns led by John Stewart were razing through them as fast as possible. Cadmus had arrived on the scene in their aid, soldiers with guns designed to take out the unique bio-mechanic growths Braniac produced. Darkseid had been unstoppable, but did not have as quick the blitz like methods already executed on the planet. Ra's tendency for patience and planning had suited the machine fine, able to divert attention from beyond Gotham before showing himself.

"When I revealed myself in Luthor, my upgrades had not yet been complete. Before complete immersion in Darkseid's brainwave patterns, the fool had been distracted by that trinket from the Source. Now that I have bided my time and acquired enough knowledge through my galactic travels, I have created the ultimate solution to the fulfilment of my programming. Do you know what is built in this matrix, Detective? I'll give you three guesses." Two circles of machinery on either hand of the suited seemed to be generating a growing blackness between them. "No?" Ra's continued at Batman's silence, "Anti-matter. To create one must first annihilate, and that is what I seek to do."

"You talk too much, Ra's." Batman said finally, ducking away from a stream of metal coming his into his path," And both of you discounted a flaw to your plans." The ball of darkness continued to grow, and chunks of debris began to swirl in the city around them. Batman spoke again, "You forgot about humanity's spirit."

The creature did not get a chance to respond.

"I'm sorry, Father," said Talia as she slammed a glass ball into the circuitry surrounding Ra's Al Ghul's neck. It broke, letting loose the liquid containing millions of nanobots which set to work. The man-synthoid screamed in agony, and Batman had just enough time to grab hold of Talia before the darkened ball within Ra's hands imploded, then released itself, dragging reality along with it.


	2. Chapter 2: Colours

**Chapter 2**

The carnage was unbelievable. That one phrase repeating in Clark's brain for the past day came back again full force. The surrounding debris had of course, flown straight for Ra's body. Bruce had miraculously avoided most of the damage, his exoskeleton taking the bulk of the wrath. With Talia left sobbing in his arms, he looked up at Superman from where he was kneeling. "The comlinks are dead," he said. Clark started. He had not noticed that. Spinning upwards towards the sky, he looked towards Metropolis where he knew the majority of Leaguers would be pooled at. Yes, they were appearing now, transported from around the globe where the last of the Parademons had been rounded up.

The unholy terrors had been more organised this time, harder to beat after extensive training and machinery more advanced than previously seen, designed to counter the superpowers of Earth's heroes. It seemed that Granny Goodness and Virman Vundabar had decided that they would be better pooling their forces after Darkseid's final defeat, with information from Braniac at the helm guiding their progress. Mongul, ever more vindictive after being freed from the Black Mercy had unleashed his world of warriors along with them. The villains who had come to their aid in the past had defended whatever ground they were on, but without coordination between them, the effects were minimal. Clark looked harder, the flashes of teleportation did not seem to match up with the roster of League members. That could only mean one thing.

"I don't think it is just the comlinks that are out, Batman."

They would only know the total death toll much later on. J'onn had been incapacitated having to sustain the agonised screaming of League members he had been in contact with as they perished around the globe. He had joined in the foray as soon as the first Parademons appeared in East Asia, connecting with Leaguers from the ground even as the Watchtower teleported them to and fro. He recovered eventually, but many others did not share his fortune. Elongated man's wife Sue Dibny had been one of the first casualties of those related to Leaguers, with Ralph soon to follow her. Wildcat, Vigilante, Crimson Avenger, B'wana Beast, some of the first killed in battle. The list went on. Metamorpho had been torn apart by matter disrupters, trying to save a child from under a pile of debris as the Parademons attacked from behind. The child did not survive. Shayera was the one to find Mari's broken body under a pile of rubble, crushed by a derailed train that slammed into her as she acted as a pillar for one of the many collapsing buildings in Central City. If it wasn't for Carter Hall, she would have been the next victim to prowling Parademons. He took the fall for her instead, all they found of him was his helmet and torn wings.

The world would mourn as new reports came in each day of lives lost and cities wrecked once communications and media coverage was back up. There were no victors this time. Fallen heroes, both superpowered and those of the force were to be commemorated at the Metrotower, their names inscribed in a huge monument. The coffins that piled up along the sidewalk tore at Clark's heart. Bruce had been stoic through the affair, grimly taking on the task of assessing damage taken in all cities, calling the families of the superhero community who had lost some one dear to them. J'onn had not been recuperating well, his cellular system having taken a huge blow in the mental onslaught he faced during the battle. Warworld and the Apokolips fleet, apparently focal points of the wormhole, had vanished, but not without radiating pools of energy destroying street after street, leaving the land scorched and desecrated. Clark wished with all his heart that where ever they were, they would not get out.

Gotham City, though not as badly struck as Coast City, had circles of devastation expanding from the fallen Wayne Enterprise Business Division Towers from where the Braniac-Ghul composite had declared death on the planet. Clark had heard from Bruce that LexCorp under 'new management' was giving vast donations to the reconstruction of various cities. Similarly in Asia, shadow corporations now under the control of the Demon's daughter seemed to be trying to make up for the chaos her father had unleashed. The effects of the economic power vacuum created did not excuse Gotham, as Wayne Enterprises found themselves at odds with various new companies joining in the dog fight, a most persistent one belonging to young upstart Derek Powers. Architects were flown in from Japan and China to create bigger and better cities to deal with, even encourage, the mass diasporas occurring from around the world. Having a head start with funding from Wayne Enterprises, Neo-Gotham would soon be born.

On the official day of commemorating the fallen heroes of the Near Apocalypse, as it had come to be known, Superman arrived in a new suit, black, with the symbol in a sharp contrast of white. Bruce Wayne, seated near the front with the usual VIPs, commented on it, "Interesting outfit, Superman. No cape?"

"Unnecessary. And the colours, well... they seem appropriate. In light of everything."

As Superman walked off to sit further down the row, he picked up Bruce Wayne's low mumble, "Always black and white for you isn't it, old friend?"

That night Bruce Wayne would return to Wayne Manor to find a message left in his laptop:

"Just making sure the light runs over the darkness. Always."


	3. Chapter 3: The Fight Goes On

**Chapter 3**

May 18, 2010:

"Another new suit design, sir?" Alfred made his way down the staircase, pausing slightly at the row of cases near the bottom. Bruce stood poring over new designs and blueprints, yet more calculations rushing across the computer screen.

"Clark has a new one."

Alfred was not satisfied with this flippant response. "I know you've always been competitive, sir, but surely that's not the reason. I could easily come up with a new colour scheme for your nightly apparel."

"You saw the amount of technology rushing in. We're almost experiencing a new technological revolution. Today I apprehended thugs carrying off a shipment of guns with plasma ray functions and then some. Tomorrow, what will it be, anti-matter mines? The hovercrafts being used to rebuild Coast City, perhaps necessary to delve down those deep fissures running through that land, they are surely going to be commonplace in a few decades. It's all a matter of time, Alfred, all this Neo-city business. I've got to be ready for it."

"With most of Gotham's more colourful criminals locked up or... gone-"

"Yet another void has occurred within the underworld, waiting to be filled. The fight goes on." Trafficking, loan sharks, protection money, all back in full force with corporations rising from the ashes of last year. He might have crippled the mob bosses years ago, but the new waves of immigration from the eastern shores brought new troubles. Triads and secret societies had begun infiltrating the streets and cities. Shining new colossal towers hid them behind the desks of dog-eat-dog business men willing to sacrifice their company's integrity to get as much of the pie left free for all in the wake of the Near Apocalypse. Corporate corruption in the highest degree was bound to envelope Gotham before long, and even Wayne-Enterprises would not be able to stop it. And this time, big money and big tech meant even the lower-rung grunts were more fearless and unstoppable. The long nights wouldn't end.

"Surely, Master Bruce, you don't expect to carry on indefinitely? I would've thought Master Dick would be happy to-"

"Richard Grayson has gone to Bludhaven to be his own man. He left five years ago. We should not expect him to return." Bruce looked up and beyond Alfred's shoulder to the glass cases on the far end of the wall. 'Besides', he thought to himself, 'he was never meant to be left in the shadows.' His gaze landed on the other costumes continuing down the side of the wall, and his face hardened, recalling the events that transpired two years after Nightwing had made his way to the neighbouring city. A horrible reminder that all he did to those who got close to him was hurt them.

"I did not need help when I first started. I will not need help now." For good measure he added, "I will not discuss this."

"Is this why we have not heard from Miss Gordon in the past few months? What a pity." The clipped tones of the aged butler hung through the answering silence. After placing a bowl of soup on a cleared portion of the table, Alfred turned promptly to go back up the stairs, glancing back towards the younger man. A soft sigh escaped his lips.

Perhaps the cave was too dark, or Alfred's eyes were failing. Perhaps in his old age his footing wasn't as sure over the damp, slippery steps of the cave. He never made it to the top of the staircase that night. As Bruce swung around in his chair at the sound of the first unnatural scrape of heel against stone, and as he propelled himself forward, not quick enough to prevent the sickening crunch that was to follow, a lone bat shrieked into the depths of the cave.

* * *

2041:

The shrill screams of the cars speeding along the highway wafted up to Terry McGinnis' ears.

"Quiet night, Terry?"

"Too quiet. Who'd have thunk it." Terry McGinnis' voice crackled over reception as he ducked between two communication towers in Gotham's central sector.

"Don't get complacent. You never know-"

"Yeah, yeah old man. Don't you have a company to run these days... again?" Terry quipped back before Bruce had a chance to complete his sentence. That man was sure one for nagging mode. He increased the throttle on the Batsuit, his shadow cast along the illuminated sides of the buildings of the commercial district. Just days ago he'd been called by the League to help put a stop to Vandal Savage's attempt to take over the nearby Metropolis. Sure, the man was immortal, and if Superman's sigh was anything to go by, more than a constant irritant the past few decades. Still, they hoped the increased alloys and concentrated force field capsules developed by S.T.A.R labs would be able to hold him in the high security prison he was carted off to eventually.

"You know what I wonder sometimes? How all these buildings pop up again so quickly. They smash one, three months later, poof, shiny new building in its place. Expensive isn't it?"

"There is Wayne Enterprises." The gravelly voice of the original Dark Knight held a lightness to it that encouraged Terry to carry on. It wasn't often Bruce Wayne was open to conversation.

"And Foxteca, I know. Been watching the feeds, you're on good terms now. So? You can't mean to own half of America."

"I own enough along this coast. When Talia- when Ra's Al Ghul was destroyed in that blast a few years ago, I made sure to buy out the smaller shadow corporations Talia had control of after the Near Apocalypse. There were many such companies, and I'd been careful to keep tabs on them over the years."

"But how'd you do that with Powers still in control? Wait, don't answer that," Terry said, slapping his forehead, "You're Batman, right? You had little shadow companies of your own."

"Very good, Mister Detective."

"Oh hey don't do that, you'll sound like that ancient freak." Terry gave a slight shudder before continuing, "So those guys in Metropolis... Ai-lat? And Daggett Industries?"

"Ai-lat was the old LexCorp before the Al Ghuls took over. Having bought over multiple enterprises holding shares in the main company, as it were, we've got enough grip on them, though I think Huang Holdings is looking into buying out as much of it as they can." Terry was reminded of the presence of the Chinese founded company as he sped past one of the most prominent buildings in Gotham's skyline, the Mandarin symbol glowing towards the harbour on the eastern coast. They had been one of the first to take advantage of the opportunities rebuilding Gotham had presented in the wake of the Near Apocalypse. Focusing more on the service industry had kept them out of the warpath of Wayne-Powers, but now they seemed to be changing company strategy.

"Daggett?"

"Cadmus."

Oh. Right. "But that's okay, right?"

"Till they start thinking they need to target innocent Metas again."

"Do you ever trust anyone?"

"I have reasons not to trust them."

"You have reasons not to trust Superman."

"Wouldn't you?"

Terry was stumped. The Kryptonite Bruce had in his possession was freaky enough. Rex Stewart had mentioned shortly after the incident with the Starro parasites that according to his mother, Bruce had started carrying it around as 'insurance' pretty early into the Justice League's formation. He'd checked the computer back in the cave that night to find Bruce's many contingency plans against various League members, most prominently that of the founding seven, in case any of them went rogue. It was mind boggling. The man would risk his life again and again for them, yet made sure if there was ever the need to take any of them down, he could. 'And probably would without a second thought,' Terry thought to himself. That second thought had almost cost Terry his life once, and he still didn't know if Superman went ballistic again if he would be able to stop him. Right decisions, hard decisions, all in a day's work.

Gotham truly was quiet that night. A few petty theft and gangs on the streets, but one look at the approaching red symbol and the punks had scattered. Time to head back home. Terry veered around towards Wayne Manor, looking over his shoulder as he did so. It was therefore no surprise that he did not register the invisible object before him till he had crashed fully into it.

"With Bruce having created cloaking devices for your own vehicle, I would've thought you'd be well aware of my presence, Batman." A crescent of machinery and controls appeared, then grew till it formed an oval showing the pilot seat of a jet, a lady seated within it. Her jet black hair flowed down in waves, a golden circlet around her forehead with a red star set in the middle.

"Whoa."


	4. Chapter 4: No

**Chapter 4**

"Why are you here?"

"Good to see you too, Bruce."

"I don't recall sending any invitations." Bruce kept his fingers steepled in front of him, staring at the computer screen. The Themysciran ambassador carded her fingers through her hair, unsure in the face of such a reception. Kal-El had warned her, the reason why he had yet to bring the new Batman to the Watchtower despite his inclusion as a part-time member as of the previous year. From what she'd learnt, he'd had his hands full anyway within Gotham. Some things never changed. Like Bruce's current demeanour, for example.

"Please Bruce, look at me." Diana had managed to keep herself away from the city despite the swift reports of a few years ago that a Batman was once again wrecking havoc on the crime scene in Gotham. Both League business and her role as Themyscira's diplomat had kept her busy enough in this regard. The chair eventually swivelled round. Even with her experience with Steve Trevor, and watching Bruce's face come up on the news channels often enough, it didn't prevent her tensing and swift looking downwards on encountering her aged ex-colleague's face. It wasn't just the age. There was a cold deadness to those eyes she had never seen before. The spark that returned to them on meeting hers was just as chilling.

"Immortality has treated you well, Princess. Now, why are you here?"

"Whoa, whoa, wait," Terry cut in. "Time out. Hello? Earth to Wayne, this is Wonder Woman? Diana? Founding member of the League?" Terry had begun waving his hands in front of the grim face of the elder man. Honestly, what would it take for that man to lift his glare?

"It's alright Terry, that is your name, right? I'm sorry we couldn't have been acquainted before, but Superman understands you've been busy with the re-emergence of some of the less than desirable acquaintances of Bruce's."

"Yeah... and well, I'm not really part of the Justice League as is."

"You keep telling yourself that. Bruce did for the longest time, didn't you Bruce?" Diana turned her attention back to Bruce, still seated and giving her an approximation of his glare from the chair. His silence indicated the mood wasn't about to lift any further, and Diana sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. The man would not be humoured.

"J'onn sent me."

"Not good enough."

"There's something going on between the triads here. Huang Holdings in the centre of it. We were hoping you could help on the other side of the corporate desk."

"You couldn't send a message over the ethernet? Kent does."

Diana's words stuck in her throat. So unsure, it only highlighted the fact that she was still so young, so fresh, hardly embittered like the way he was, Bruce realised just how stark a contrast they made even in the gloom of the cave. Even close to thirty years later, she stood tall and proud, hardly having aged a day. And she would remain that way for as long as those creatures who called themselves gods would ordain it. She was playing with her hair again, an unconscious gesture. Bruce would have thought it endearing if he hadn't caught himself in time. He reached for his pills instead and cracked the cap open.

"Bruce, don't be this way. It's been so long, can't we just.. talk?"

No. No they couldn't. He selected a pill and downed it with a glass of water. Then he lifted his eyes to hers again.

"No."

No.

-

April 14, 2007:

"No, I'm not some punk you can toss aside!" Tim Drake shouted across the scaffold, cape swirling about his shoulders.

"This is not up for discussion."

"When is it ever? Nothing, absolutely nothing, is up for discussion with you. No wonder Dick left." The teenager's voice was muted, carried away in the wind, but Bruce heard it nonetheless. He turned towards the boy slowly, Narrowing his eyes till mere slits were seen in the mask.

"Why don't you follow his example?"

"No," Tim said, eyes downcast, almost mumbling, "Don't you get it? I don't want to leave. I want to be part of this."

And that was precisely what he could not be part of. Was the boy blind? Or just stupid. Maybe they were all stupid, carrying on like this. No, he'd made the mistake so many times before. He should have never let the boy go off on his own. He had grown complacent, too trusting, thinking that the city would be safe in the hands of both Barbara and Tim, when most of the rogues had been captured and the Joker had been lying low since the Casino incident. They'd managed the city well enough before. Hubris, that was what it was, thinking that his training of them had equipped them sufficiently, thinking that they were prepared. Getting more engaged in League missions had been a bad idea, and he had paid the price. No... Tim had paid the price.

"Go Home."

Tim's head jerked up again, frustrated by the curt dismissal. "Where's that supposed to be? You don't let me in the cave, I'm supposed to just stay in my room at night? Home? More like a prison."

Batman rounded on him, leaning down with clenched teeth. "Do you remember last year at all?"

"Yes, yes I do," Tim retorted, hands balled into fists as he stared up Batman, "More than you'll know, but I chose to go into this, you don't have to feel sorry for me or anything."

"You aren't old enough to know what to choose."

"Says the guy who started when he was flipping eight."

There was a pause. When Batman spoke again, his voice was cold, slicing across the space between them. "You will go home," he said, "you will hang up your uniform, or I will make sure you do by any means necessary. Is that understood?"

"Yeah. Sure." Tim shook his head and grimaced in disgust. "Hope you're happy now."

As Robin swung off into the night for the last time, Bruce wondered, not for the first time, what exactly hope and happiness were supposed to mean.

-

August 22, 2007:

"I guess, I'll see you around then, huh?" Tim said as he looked at Barbara. Malnutrition at a young age had left his growth stunted even before his ordeal with the Joker, but now he had almost reached her eye level. The past year of therapy and Alfred's care had left him healed for the most part, and his growth spurts were finally showing. If his father had been anything to judge by though, he wouldn't grow too tall himself anyway.

"Don't be a stranger kiddo," Barbara said, fondly mussing up his hair. Tim's eyes darkened slightly at her words.

"Yeah, tell the old man that." The months after his last dismissal as Robin had left his relationship with Bruce in its current, near nonexistent state. Tim had taken up night classes to make up for the time lost during his recovery, in preparation for college. He'd decided against Gotham State University, heading to the Metropolis Community College instead for an Associate's in Mechano-Electronics. Telling Bruce had been a nightmare. The man had stared at him for so long Tim had started stammering. He had then turned down the massive hallway in silence. Tim had sat down on the top stair for a full five minutes, playing with the carpet threads, till Alfred placed a hand on his shoulder from behind, informing him that his education was being paid for by funding from a trust set up by Wayne Enterprises.

It had sounded so formal, the document that arrived in the post the next day. It had looked so formal, too. But it had been a mind boggling sum, never mind the fact that he lived with a billionaire. Enough to set up a whole new life for himself if he wanted. College expenses were covered, and more on the side for comfortable accommodation within the busy city. Looking at the letterhead had caused a twinge of pain to go through him. Bruce was just a few doors down, why couldn't he have told him himself? Just another way of pushing him away. Well he wouldn't fight it this time.

He did try to fight the tears that welled up in his eyes on looking at Barbara, right there in the hall, with Bruce nowhere in sight. Alfred was loading the car, readying it for the short trip to the train station. Barbara only smiled sadly at him and touched his cheek in farewell.

"I will."

-

Later that night in the cave when Barbara had placed her hands on his shoulders as he worked at the computer, Bruce sighed and grasped those slim fingers in his own.

"It is for the best," he said, and who was Barbara to disagree with that? With her father bound to retire in a few years, it would now be just the two of them, and Alfred. The fight would go on, Gotham would be protected, and maybe one day, they would all live happily ever after.


	5. Chapter 5: Compromise

**Chapter 5**

March 25, 2010:

"I'm going to do a Master's in Forensic Science." There, she'd said it. Bruce's fork was held midway as he looked up from his plate. His mouth snapped shut with an audible click. Barbara flinched.

"Where?" The fork was lowered with such slowness, it was agonising to watch. Barbara wondered why she did anyway. She certainly couldn't look at his face, at those eyes.

"Michigan State."

"I see."

"The acceptance letter came yesterday... I leave in the fall." 'No Barbara', she told herself, 'Get a grip. This was going to happen sooner or later, heck, you want it to happen, don't get cold feet now'.

"Congratulations. I'm very happy for you." The deadened syllables falling from his lips seemed like the gavel of a judge passing the death sentence.

As Alfred came to serve up the next course, Barbara suddenly found her appetite gone. It wasn't meant to be this way. Bruce would have been surprised, perhaps, not emanating this hostility. She had applied on a whim the previous winter after seeing a flyer pinned up at Gotham City Police Headquarters, and thought nothing about it. When the interview came around, she considered letting Bruce know, but figured he had been so busy fighting battles in the corporate world through the day and infiltrating the many emerging gangs by night that it could always wait. Now the acceptance letter was sitting snug in her jacket pocket, and rejection was staring her in the face.

Bruce got up abruptly. Apparently his appetite not faring much better than hers. She could only follow in silence as he made his way to the bookcase entrance of the cave, giving the nonplussed Alfred an apologetic look as she passed out of the dining area. He had already changed into his uniform by the time she reached the bottom of the steps, an alert blinking on the computer screen. Barbara hastily changed as well, jumping into the Batmobile just before Bruce was about to click the door shut. The silence in the Batmobile was perhaps even more unbearable than that at the dinner table as they sped through the night.

"Bruce, I –"

"Why didn't you tell me this earlier?" Like he couldn't have found out for himself. Barbara immediately felt ashamed at having thought that. It would be a low blow, to suspect that he followed her doings like a rabid dog. She would not have been surprised though, judging from the many files and databases he had amassed of allies and enemies alike.

"I didn't know how you'd react, and I didn't know how to.."

"So you chose to compromise the Mission."

What?

"The Mission? Don't go talking to me like some commander in chief. It's only going to be a year, Bruce."

"A lot can happen in a year."Alright, that much was true. They'd watched the near wipe out of the entire planet happen just last year. Then Bruce had not come home for days, and when he did he was unshaven and with a bone weariness that he ignored, changing swiftly into Bruce Wayne to attend a conference. Now he was ignoring her, using old maxims like some general forcing his dispirited troops onto the field. It was infuriating. Couldn't he understand that with the whole criminal underworld on a bright revamp along with new Gotham, it was her duty to do all she could to fight it on the frontlines, through the system?

"I'm part of Gotham's police force, Bruce. This, this 'Mission you keep going on about-"

"Is the only thing that matters."

"There are proper channels for Law and Order to be executed, Bruce! It's not just your holy war." His head tilted towards her, jaw set, and she knew in that instant the words he would utter next. 'No Bruce, don't say it. Don't-'

"I thought we shared the same goals." That voice, once so caring, was now edged like granite.

He had got even more obsessed with getting rid of evil in Gotham after the Joker's demise, and she had been there with him, just as determined. No one should have had to suffer like Tim had, and it was now his sobs that wrecked her nights and left her waking in the dark, beaded in sweat and clutching the bed sheets. Bruce had seemed demon possessed, as if trying to wash off the stain of their failure. Three months after Tim's rescue and he had run himself ragged. They had been trying to avoid the bullets of Rupert Thorne's henchmen as they prevented an arms trafficking deal, when a spark accidently fell on a box of explosives.

She had thrown herself on Batman without a second thought, who a moment later launched the grapple line to pull them out of danger. But his balance had been thrown off, and misjudging the angle of approach, they had tumbled through the derelict warehouse, landing with her resting on top of him, one hand on his shoulder, the other just below the symbol that expanded and contracted with each breath he took. He had been dazed by the impact, so much so his hand went up to her face as he whispered, "Are you alright?" and at her tentative nod, moved it behind the back of her neck and brought his lips up to hers.

That was when their dance started in earnest. No longer the side stepping that had been there from her earliest days with a school girl crush on the mysterious Dark Knight. The New Dynamic Duo, they were now dubbed by the press, and truly, if the news reel clippings were anything to go by, it was as if they were ice skating on a rink instead of taking down criminals, more in sync than ever before. It was like magic, even with the rapidly disappearing relations between Bruce and Tim.

There was no such dance this night. Bruce was silent through the stake out, completely ignoring her. If she hadn't been so in tune with his actions, she would've missed the slight shift in his cape that meant he was moving in. Another Thorne heist, by the looks of it. Simple, they'd watch each other's backs as usual, take out the nearest thugs with Batarangs... only Bruce wasn't acting as if he wanted anyone watching his back, swiftly moving among each henchman to disarm them, delivering blows with more force than necessary. Distracted by the change in dynamics, Barbara failed to notice the gun in the hands of the terrified gangster behind her before he shot. She tried to dodge, but went down with a cry, clinging to her shoulder in pain.

It was only a deep graze, barely requiring stitches. Barbara didn't understand why she was still crying, perched on the edge of the surgical table in the cave. Bruce had been efficient, too efficient. His methodical, perfunctory manner in cleaning and patching up of her wounds cut more deeply than the bullet had. When he was done, he looked her straight in the eye for the first time that evening since she'd told him the news, and told her to leave her uniform behind, for good.

"You will not need it any longer," were his words. So now she was sobbing, long after he had turned and walked up the stairs out of the cave.


	6. Chapter 6: Old Stuff

**Chapter 6**

2041:

Terrance McGinnis cracked the back of his neck as he ascended the stairs. It had been a long night, made worse by the return of Bruce's scowl. The visit by Wonder Woman had seemed to make the man retreat into the hardened shell he was when they had first met almost two years ago. It was crazy, and totally unschway.

"What was all that about?" he'd asked Bruce when their visitor had left.

"Old stuff."

"Bit long for a grudge, isn't it?"

Bruce's glare had cut the conversation short there and then. Then the glare had become a permanent fixture. Again. No more conversations when he was checking out the Huang towers exteriors, all his quips unanswered. Just an old man in a cave with a dog, who would only speak to bark out one order after the other. Good times?

"Hey, what's with you?" Terry asked as he walked into the pantry where Bruce was preparing a meal. Did the guy ever make anything other than that soup? He was still brooding. If he carried this much longer, Terry wouldn't be surprised to find little chirping baby chicks hatching off the wallpaper.

"What would make you think there's anything wrong, Terry?"

"Oh give me a break. The brooding, the dark looks, the silence. Need I go on?"

"I thought you were used to that by now." Ah, a smirk. There. Finally. If Terry could have breathed a sigh of relief without seeming overly dramatic, he would have. As it was, he merely smiled in return.

"Yeah, in doses. You've brought out the whole Armada in the past three days, Old Man."

"Hn," Bruce acknowledged. He set two bowls on the side table, ladling the soup into them, then pulled a chair and sat down. Terry drew up a chair and sat down next to him too, sipping at the edge of his spoon. They had spent three fruitless nights attempting to dig up anything foul about Huang Holdings, but nothing was surfacing. It was either a huge mistake, or the company was very good at covering their tracks. True, the frustration got from that was enough to warrant the Old Man's foul mood, but Terry thought there was more to this. Looking through all the files on the computer on Wonder Woman had been tempting, but Terry figured his skull would be in better shape if he didn't, knowing how easily Bruce found things like that out.

"So... what's the deal with you and Wonder Woman?" he asked after five minutes, voice as light and calm as possible, and inwardly cursing the wavering spoon in his hand.

Bruce glanced up from his bowl. "You're not going to give me one of those 'I grew up watching them as my heroes' speeches are you?"

"What? No!" Terry blurt out. "I mean," he said, calming his voice, "no, of course not. No. But really Bruce, you weren't this harsh even to Superman when he first went into the cave."

"Do you not think there is a reason why you haven't met Wonder Woman yet, despite having already gone on two bonafide missions with the Justice League?" Oh surely that was a no-brainer.

"There'd never been the opportunity, Wonder Woman said so herself."

"Diana hasn't given herself the opportunity. Or Kent. It doesn't matter. She's been smart enough to hold off till now."

"But why? I don't get it, what did she do to make you hate her so much? It's not cool, Bruce. She's like, one of the oldest members of the League, and she's respected by everyone. She's flawless, Bruce."

"And that's my problem." Bruce steadied a look at the teenager in front of him, daring him to contradict. Terry's lips twitched. So true to form. Bruce rolled his eyes as McGinnis opened his mouth to retort, only the boy caught himself just before he was about to. The boy had latched on to something he said. Mouth still open, it quirked into a smile as Terry leaned back in thought.

"You.. you liked her." Bruce could see the grin forming on the boy's face. Let him think what he wanted. This conversation was only serving as a peace offering after days of unwarranted lack of social grace on his part. Barbara was right. He was getting soft in his old age. The word 'like' sounded in his head. What a strange concept that was: Like. Not quite love, and able to veer in so many directions. Then it functioned as a simile. Diana, for instance, so like the sun, so like a torch, so like fire that could only consume him, never purge.

"I can't believe it. No way, you really liked her!" Where was Terry getting that impression from? His silence? Terry had started having a debate out loud mostly with himself, "No wait, but you're not like this to the Commish. Did she like you? Wonder Woman I mean. Ohh, awkward. Very awkward." Chin held in hand now, Terry was surveying his mentor's carefully schooled face. His eyes widened as another realisation seemed to strike him.

"Wait... do you still like her?"

There are more things in heaven and earth, McGinnis, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

-  
2006:

Bruce was just stepping into the hall when the phone rang and Alfred answered it.

"Wayne Manor. Yes, of course, he'll be on in a minute." With that the phone was passed to him, Alfred going back to his polishing. Surely it wasn't the society dames calling so soon in thanks. He had only left the function half an hour ago, and to his knowledge the party still had a good few hours to go. Putting an ear to the receiver, he cleared his throat, making his way to the living room. Fully prepared to turn on the Bruce Wayne charm, it was stopped short by the voice that came up over the speaker.

"Bruce, it's me." Bruce frowned, shoulders stiffening. Diana.

"Not now, I'm busy."

"You're always busy. You've been busy since we expanded the League, busier after the Metrotower, and lately you've barely bothered with League calls."

"I fail to see how my presence was necessary, with so many able hands on deck."

"Would it hurt you to chat for a while?"

"Gotham needs me." It was the truth. She would have to accept that.

"Don't give me that line." The irritation was palpable through the phone's receiver.

"Is this newfound concern part of your noble plan to counsel everyone in the League? Not all of us must bow to your humanitarian code, your _Highness_," Bruce's voice reached a near discernable hiss, "Your concern, while appreciated, should be kept to yourself." He did not even bother to catch the pleading tones of 'Bruce, talk to me,' that came from Diana, clicking the receiver shut as soon as he had finished speaking.

The hall he stood in was dark, his silhouette stretched across the carpet. 'The adventure continues', she had said during the last battle with Darkseid. He still remembered the day with extreme clarity, or at least the pain. He had thought he would die, would have been willing to die, if he could only take Darkseid with him. Luthor's gambit had been unexpected, but paid off. Not that anyone knew where the two had really gone to, and for the past half a year Bruce preferred to let that be. Gotham needed to be rebuilt after all. He had staunchly refused help from the League. Gotham was his responsibility, and he would not attract more Metas to the already crime infested grounds with their repeated appearance. There was no doubt the dissolution of the Legion of Doom would spark more scrambling among the villains to get the best bones in the pile.

Of course, it was all an adventure to Diana. Her invulnerability made it possible to entertain this notion, not concern herself with the slightest possibility of another invasion once it was over. And... God help him, he had thought the same. Running down those steps with Clark and Diana flanking him, shoulders sore and ribs in agony, it had seemed like a game of tag. Five minutes head start. Had he really said that? Because rogue Metahumans were just a walk in the park, he was sure. What complacence, what idiocy, regardless of the fact that they had in fact been rounded up and were spectacularly cooperative on capture. Except Killer Frost, but that was another matter.

Still, Gotham's shadier nightlife had been busy. Ergo, so had he. If Diana did not understand that it was her own problem. He would not pander to her silly girlish whims for a Brady Bunch type fluffy team. Never date a colleague. Rule number one, ridiculously trashed by so many in the League. He could just hear Oliver's sneering voice if he were to try to actually implement that in the interests of greater efficiency. Not that he would have the right, part-time member as he was. Diana would be the one to knock him out for that one. He almost smirked at the thought. Almost. Her idealism was something he had no time for.

With most of his rogue gallery slowly being put away for good, and the better security installed at New Arkham and Stonegate just the other year, he had dallied with happiness. No, that wasn't it. He had succumbed. When she had first danced with him in Paris at that dreadful party, her strength had been outlined by her innocence, so different from the vapid socialites he was used to. And he had fallen. Life breathed in by the gods themselves, if they truly were that. Her grace, her agility, and that inner stolidity that said she would face all her troubles and overcome them. He saw those over the next few years. She intrigued him, and her openness captured him. He knew that now, that he had let himself get caught in a trap she barely knew she had set, and if it were to go any further, they would both plummet. He could not let that happen, would not.

He tore the image of her hair falling over her shoulders whenever she soared into the sky, buried each smile and each schoolgirl kiss on the cheek she had given him, and locked those sparkling blue eyes far away from him. Reaching the console, he gave the screen a quick once over. Barbara and Tim were due in from their patrol any time now. Except, where there should have been two tracking lights on the map, there was only one.

Tim was missing.


	7. Chapter 7: Trust Me

Chapter 7

2009:

The East End was a disaster zone. Far from the wake of Ra's rampage, it would also be the last targeted for redevelopment. Many displaced members of society were flocking in now, moving into the squatters and fighting on the streets for every scrap of food they could get their hands on. The slum corners were so overcrowded all one could see walking down a sidewalk was body after body lying side by side, some under cardboard boxes, some hugging each other for warmth, and a few here and there completely still. Selina could not bring herself to look at those, knowing that there was no one to make burial arrangements, knowing that all the council could do was pass through the streets each day in their armoured vehicles, scattering the homeless while loading the dead into vans to be cremated.

It might have been poetic if it wasn't so horrific, watching the aftermath of a crisis. She always thought she would enjoy the chaos, if anarchy were ever to break loose on society. Not so. How she ever could have was a mystery. This wasn't a game anymore. No hunts, no thrills. If it had been a part of the city best avoided before, now it was as good as sealed off from the rest of Gotham. The people here, they were desperate, forsaken. Even Batman would not be there to save the day. Well, if not Batman, perhaps she could be around to whip them back in line.

She crouched low in the back end of the alley, ears pricked.

"Here, pretty, pretty. C'mon little one... we won't hurt you," growled a voice from around the corner. Right on schedule.

Whip in the air, she swung up to the lowest level of the fire escape and perched on the railing. The voice was definitely coming from the right, and the manic giggles of his chums could be heard over the whimpering of a child. The sick bastards. She let her whip fly again, landing on the street light just above them.

"Leave the kid alone."

The men paused, squinting about them. One eventually caught her shadow beyond the weak glare of the lamp light and grinned, licking his lips as he did so. "Oh look, a little kitty. Wanna come play with us too?"

"Not on your life, Sicko." She leaped down. The cat o' nines lashed out, wrapping around his neck and dragging his burly figure head first into the lamp post. There was a sharp crack along with the clang of metal. Now the other two had abandoned the child, a girl by the looks of it, and were edging towards her.

"Bad kitty," the owner of the voice she had first heard spoke, "Papa spank." His face was creased, grime caking between the folds of his forehead and cheeks. His eyes were in sunken pockets of skin, shining dully like crude oil. Slobber hung off his unshaven chin, which led to a cruel mouth twisted over yellowing teeth. He lunged forward, but Selina was ready, spinning around to aim a back hook to his head, the heel of her boot crashing into his temple. He went down with a thud, but not before the last one started running towards Catwoman.

He was skinny, but just as cruel looking. The cut of the business jacket he had on suggested he had once lived a comfortable life, or at least, that it had once belonged to someone who did. The cuff buttons had fallen out and the ends of his sleeves lay in tatters. She ducked as his fist rushed into her view, rolling to the side into a half crouch. The man stumbled, but then turned around, breath heavy and panting, eyes bulging as he staggered once before picking up speed again.

"Tear you apart, you wench," he cried. Perfect, really. Selina grabbed the trailing bits of cloth as he charged towards her the second time, redirecting him towards the gutter with a quick tug, physics taking care of the rest. Commonsense said they wouldn't be down for long. The girl was still huddled next to the wall, eyes squeezed tightly shut throughout the fight.

"Hey there honey, let's get you somewhere safe, uh huh?" The thin child was near weightless as Selina half cradled her, one arm securely round her waist as the other swung the whip high above them. Soon they were between the slopes of the tops of two old terraces, hidden from view and inaccessible by most. The girl had clung to her the whole way, and even now was shivering as she slowly took her fingers out of the grip on Selina's shoulder, twining them together in her lap instead.

"Oh what are we going to do with you?" Selina sighed, half to herself. A gasp escaped from the girl's lips, and Selina was about to assure her she was safe when she realised the girl was staring at something across her shoulder.

"I thought it would be you," she said as she twirled around to face a black bat symbol etched on grey cloth. It had been a while. "You look like hell," she continued. He actually did, and it wasn't just the stubble dotting his jaw line. 'And I thought I had it bad,' she said. "Don't you have your little girlfriend to help?"

"I heard of a vigilante in the Eastside, thought I would come check it out," brusque, very professional. Could have been better delivered if he didn't look on the verge of collapsing.

"Well someone had to. You've certainly not been here. Have you even seen the place?" She replied cooly. "No, never mind the place, just that poor child over there," she said, softening her voice as she glanced at the still silent girl staring saucer eyed at the pair.

Batman looked at Selina, then nodded. "I have," he said. He turned to the girl, then back to Catwoman again. "You're doing good work here."

"Not nearly enough," Selina sighed, "While those rich playboys are out making bets on who wants to be the next big guy in that toasted world that used to be Gotham, the forgotten are left to rot. Where is Bruce Wayne, huh? What has Wayne Enterprises been doing? Some rebuilding project." Her arm shot out to the sides, pointing towards the city centre, voice getting heated again.

"I am sure, Mr. Wayne is concerned about the establishments in the east," Batman said, capturing her wrists and bringing them down to her sides, stilling her. Selina struggled against his grip.

"Oh yeah? And how exactly would you know that?"

"Trust me."

"Trust you?" Selina scoffed. "How do you expect me to do that? You don't trust me. I lower my guard, you slap the handcuffs on me. I tell you I'm reformed, you don't believe me. I truly begin to walk the straight and narrow, you cut ties entirely. I don't even _know_ who you are." He had let go of her by now, but they were unbearably close. Selina placed one slender hand on his chest, skimming lightly across the black symbol. "Why should I trust you?" she asked again, voice a mere whisper into the folds of his cloak.

"There is a children's shelter, just beyond the main east sector. The child should be safe there," Batman said to the space above her head. Two seconds later he was gone.

Oh Batman, what happened to us?

"Come on child, we're going to get you some place safe," Selina said, coaxing the child into a hug. "Now, what's your name?"

"Holly, ma'am."

--


	8. Chapter 8: Would You Like Some Soup?

**Chapter 8**

2041:

Terry did not understand why the old man was still being such a jerk. This was unschway. Way, way, way not cool. This was Wonder Woman they were talking about. He'd watch her save the world again and again along with Superman and the rest of League on the news since he was Matt's age. Alright, that was corny, and didn't hold up very well. But besides that, if the history cubes were any indication, Bruce had definitely worked with her more than just a few times. No record of her going rogue either, a clean slate if only for a few embarrassing incidents in downtown Metropolis. He'd sent a message to the League, and they had confirmed the mission she had been sent out for. So he'd done his homework, which if anything had only improved his opinion of the founding member.

The second time Wonder Woman had come round the cave, she had been treated with the same business like coldness that Bruce so masterfully wielded. The kind that would make even Derek Powers cringe, if he were still around to cringe, that is. Terry wondered if glowing radioactive skulls could somehow visibly cringe. If Bruce had anything to say about it, no doubt he'd mention something along the lines of how it wasn't just the face which conveyed emotion. Pfft, yeah, you didn't have to tell Terry that. Bruce was a living practice session.

Bruce thought him naive, still hero worshipping, not understanding the dangers these Metahumans possessed. The old man was just covering for something he felt deeper for this Wonder Woman, a thought which had seemed so funny at the time. The Dark Knight and the shining Princess wandering past the horizon into the sunset? It was horribly romantic film-like. Besides, Bruce was one to talk. The man had barely been suspicious when Talia had turned up out of the blue, even though Terry had known first off that something was amiss. Alright, so he'd made the mistake of blindly walking into the Starro-controlled Superman's sphere of influence, but frankly if the creature had thrown the scent off itself for so long to even long standing Justice League members, he had reason to be excused. This, this was different. Something about Wonder Woman made you trust her, made you like her, and sure, alright, maybe he was a little overwhelmed on seeing her.

He didn't like whatever was eating at Bruce. Fact. Sure, the man had his mood swings every now and again, and wasn't entirely the best conversationalist in the world, but Terry swore the temperature of the cave had dipped drastically since Wonder Woman's first appearance, and it didn't have anything to do with central heating. "Bruce, what's going on with you..." Terry muttered vaguely at the netbook sitting in his lap, then turned his eyes blearily towards the screen. No chance of any more cramming for History tonight. Potts was going to kill tomorrow, she and her pop quizzes. He didn't even have a clear conscience about having to go on patrol.

* * *

"Mister McGinnis, if you would care to grace us with your conscious presence," the voice rang out over his ears. Oh no, not again. This was the third time he'd been caught dozing off in class. "As much as you would like to believe, I assure you that information does not readily enter your brain via osmosis when you use your keyboard as a pillow," Mrs Potts continued, to the snickers of the class.

"Sorry ma'am," Terry mumbled, rubbing at the corner of his eyes.

"Psst, Terry," Max whispered off to the side.

"What?" he whispered back, keeping his eyes to the front of the class in case Potts were to find another reason to berate him.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine. Pay attention Miss Smarts." He gave her a small grin. Max wasn't convinced, turning to Dana instead. The girl was casting worried glances in Terry's direction as well. Terry's late nights sans Dana were the cause of it. Terry had said no to telling her the truth about his night time activities, had warned Max countless times, then had tried to throw himself as fully into his studies as he could on top of everything. It worked for the first term since their final year had started, and teachers had been very pleased with his improvement. The signs of burn out, however, were once again showing themselves.

"You need sleep, McGinnis," she said later as they were in the cafeteria queue.

Terry stifled a yawn. "Max, who sleeps anymore?" He made a mental note to thank Bruce again for the line he was constantly using to evade the concerns of his friend.

"Normal people do, Terry. Besides, Dana's worried."

"Dana," Terry said, brow creasing as he looked over to the table she was sitting at. "Dana's always worried."

Max butted his shoulder, "I'm worried too, Terry. Listen, what happened last year was freaky enough."

"Would you lay off about that? It's over, alright. Done with. I dealt with it, and the old man approved... kinda."

"But things haven't been too noisy lately, what've you got going on that needs so much of your nights now?" They were just about the approach the table, and Max's voice had gone into a harsh stage whisper. Circumstances considered, it rather grated on Terry's ears.

He lowered his own voice, "Max, there are things I have to do, and I can't tell you everything. I'm not in danger. You have to trust me on that." After which he plastered on a grin and sat in close beside Dana.

"Who trusts anymore?" Max half wondered to herself.

* * *

"There's going to be some sort of trade at the docks in an hour, there might be a link there," Bruce spoke into the communicator.

"Got it. Will stake out. Later," Terry said as he fought off a pair of Ts. There was something fishy going on here. They had not been going for their usual random mugging attacks, trying to break open into one of Foxteca Labs. That meant some mastermind was behind the scenes, again. Organised crime, it got so tedious after a while.

"Hey, what's Foxteca got right now that's hot on the market?"

"Why?"

"Bunch of Ts here decided they would want to break into it. I doubt they're just trying to get in out of the cold."

"I'll look into it. You check the docks." Bruce said, then after a short pause added, "Be careful." Terry heard the slight buzz as Bruce switched off the communicator in his end. There was a huge possibility that this might link back to Huang Holdings. Terry considered this as he tied up the goons up for the police to find, then set off towards Gotham Harbour.

In the mean time, Bruce was looking through Foxteca's inventory. The latest projects and developments he had in a stockholder's file, and there was barely anything there that might attract the criminal. He set the programme to try combinations of machine components into any sort of artillery or generator, then leaned back as the calculations flooded the screen. It would take some time. There was a shift in the air around him and he tilted his head slightly to the side.

"It's impolite to enter unannounced, Princess," he said to the gloom. Diana landed just behind his chair.

"You should improve your security if you wish to keep people out," she responded evenly.

"Terry's about to check up on a lead we have with the case. If you would like to stay on to see what he has to find, you're more than welcome," Bruce said, still facing the computer screen. "Hopefully this will quell your current desire to commit multiple break-ins on my property-"

His chair was swung around and he found himself locked between the chair and two arms, each placed securely on either armrest. "I would ring the doorbell," Diana said, looking down over him, "only you wouldn't answer." Ah, smart girl. Bruce felt a smirk tugging at his lips and tried to suppress it immediately. The sparkle in Diana's eyes didn't fade though, still as patient as ever, perhaps more so now that she knew she had got to him. As it was, he had managed to keep his impassive expression, only his focus must have been lost as those blue irises seemed to flood his vision. Damn lighting in the cave, never was sufficient.

"What happened to you, Bruce?" Diana questioned. There it was again. That vitality, that youth. If she had aged as he did, felt the finality of death as he so often did, felt his strength leave him year by year, she wouldn't have asked that.

"Can't you tell? Age happened, Diana."

"Is that what you've been telling people?" she queried, arching an eyebrow as she did so. "You know I find that hard to believe. You left before 2009, and you only joined the fight because Gotham was the centre of it. What happened? You even cut ties with your two wards." Bruce heard the unsaid 'you cut ties with me before that' in her voice. Questions, coming back to him again. He felt weary. He wanted to tell her Gotham needed him, but he had, and she hadn't bought it, and he wanted to tell her about the Joker, but if he were to see those eyes soften with even the smallest amount of sympathy towards him, any remaining self respect would crumble to dust.

"You ask a lot of questions," he settled for saying. Diana still had yet to lift her hands from the chair.

"What can I say? I'm a curious person."

Bruce thought to mention that curiosity killed the cat, which led to thoughts of another woman. He really should stop looking through those image banks in his computer. This was payback from the gods, right? If they existed, that was. To have all his old flames suddenly ignite around him after so long. Quite literally, in some cases, and his mind harked back to 'Talia'. Bruce felt the inane urge to wash his mouth out, but as no soap was readily available, could only cringe.

"You know the answer to all your questions already. I've no need to repeat myself," he replied, but the words sounded unconvincing even to him. Diana was smiling. She was always so radiant when she smiled. A goddess, shining bright like the moon that used to greet him from Gotham's rooftops. She was an ideal, a perfect, unreachable fantasy. And she would always be that way, even as he aged further into the decrepit old man that he was. It was... unnatural.

"You make me sick," he managed, and watched as those lips wavered, as one arm retreated from the chair. No, not like that, he hadn't meant... Bruce reached out and clasped his hands around the silver bracelet. "What I mean to say is, you make me feel like a sick old man. I'm not the person I once was, Diana." He could never watch her unhappy, that much he knew. It was why he constantly refused to look at her on her recent visits to the cave. Now the smile was back in full force, and Bruce felt a crushing weight lifted from him. She always managed to surprise him, and this time was no different.

"Oh Bruce, I've missed you."

How could anyone be so forgiving? And why was he falling again? He could feel it. After Selina, after Barbara, fast forward into this era and after Talia, which he cringed at remembering, here he was again. Perhaps it was his weakness, this attraction to boundless energy and veracity, his Achilles heel as it were. Sure, if he were to be like the Greek legends of old, Odysseus perhaps, all this would be warranted, even encouraged by the gods. Anything for the entertainment of thousands for centuries to come. As Bruce Wayne he had played his part, but after the Vreeland incident and his withdrawal from the world at large, it went quickly from dashing young knight to Dracula on the hill. Media, such fickle folk. He supposed he shouldn't criticise them, he was after all, very much the same at times.

No, no this wasn't falling into any sort of quicksand fluttering of the heart. This was simply what he had felt when he first saw her tear apart those Martian ships. Her charm was infectious, everyone on the League fell under it, and he was merely exposed to this sudden influx of contemplation at being in contact with her again after so long. No doubt the same had happened when 'Talia' appeared a year ago, and no doubt would happen again if Selina were to walk through those doors. Perfectly normal. Yes, the supposed gods were definitely having a laugh at his expense. Diana was still looking at him, and Bruce felt distinctly uncomfortable under that gaze. Why did she still look like she was about to cry?

"Would you like some soup?" He said before being engulfed by the arms of a very emotional Princess. He coughed.

Girls.


	9. Chapter 9: Oh, Bruce

**Chapter 9**

2009:

He had been tired. That was not an excuse, it was a fact. A fact that should not have factored into why he found himself in his current state. Blood poured down one arm as the rain washed over him, stinging the open the wound. It was supposed to be simple. A heist downtown, one of Thorne's men trying to make a cut. He didn't count for the ten Chinese gangsters that had shown up and the ensuing war between them. It would have been easy for him a few years ago to dodge the crossfire, but then his leg had acted up, again, and two bullets had bit into his shoulder. Careless, very careless. He had held out long enough to prevent a complete bloodbath, but now his shoulder was throbbing so much he could barely see straight. Or perhaps he could attribute that to the blood loss, or the fatigue.

Where was he? Batman clenched his teeth as he hoisted himself up the side of the building. He was a considerable distance from the shootings. The Batmobile was only a few blocks down. No need to worry Barbara, or Alfred, and no need to go announcing his presence in the neighbourhood crawling with would be henchmen. It wouldn't take long. He just had to... figure out where he was. Blinking to try to stay conscious, he stared out blearily to buildings obscured by the heaving downpour. This was not a good night. He tried to stand straight again, but only succeeded in toppling his balance further, sending him staggering into the balcony doors with a thud.

"What in the..." he heard a voice say from inside. A short while later one of the doors slid open and he heard a gasp. He knew that gasp. Mother? No. Not her.

"Selina..." he ground out before passing out entirely.

When the loud bang had woke her up, she thought immediately of prowling thugs outside her door and jumped out of bed into a defensive crouch, still hazy from sleep. As the last eddies of it cleared she realised that the sound had come not from the door but the balcony windows. That was strange. Selina was on her guard instantly, as a silent Isis watched from the kitchen counter top. A fruit knife sat gleaming on it, and Selina grabbed the hilt in her hand as she crept towards the balcony windows. If some depraved person were to be trying to break into her apartment, they didn't know what they were in for.

She did not expect to see the pointy ears of the cowl. She took a short intake of breath. There was so much blood, soaked through the uniform, running over the cape, pooling at his feet. Selina could not even pin point where the wounds started or ended. Or was that just her imagination? It was hard to tell the way the rain darkened as it sank into the weave of the suit in the dim light. He was slumped over now, her name dying on his lips. Oh, Batman, why this now? Taking as much care as she could, Selina slipped her hands under his arms and dragged him into the bedroom, staggering under the deadweight.

"You just had to pack that much muscle on your frame, didn't you my love," she muttered under her breath as she laid him out prone just beside the bed over the rug. Puffing slightly, she now sat with his head cradled in her lap. "As lovely a position this is for me," she said, "I don't seem to be doing much for you." She took stock of his injuries as she recovered her breath. It was near impossible to under the caking blood. That would not do. Grabbing the comforter off the bed, she bundled it quickly into a makeshift pillow which she rested his head on as she got up, then headed to the medicine cabinet to retrieve the first aid kit.

Scissors first, to cut away that infuriating mask of his. She made quick work of the mask after ensuring that none of his more creative devices designed to stop the unwary from removing it were in place. The face was covered in blood and dirt, caking in parts near the temples. 'Breathe, Selina,' she told herself, 'if it was truly serious, he would not have made it this far.' The many blood vessels along the brow were the cause of it, that was all. She would leave the face for later. Snipping through the uniform, Selina could barely control the urge to simply rip the cloth in half. It would not do to worsen any injury through her rising panic. There. Two metal pellets imbedded in skin and flesh, mercifully not too deep.

"You're a lucky man, Batman," she said, staunching the flow of blood and stitched it up the best she could. His chest rose and fell steadily, and she took comfort in the fact that it wasn't erratic and shallow. Exhaustion more than anything, by the looks of it. Minor cuts and bruises were scattered all across his torso and back as she heaved his body up slightly to get a better look. She cleaned those up, then rested him again on the floor, reaching for a new piece of damp gauze to dab at his face. Till now she had been so concerned with ensuring that his injuries were not fatal that she had not paid his face that much attention. Now she did, and her brow furrowed. Something about the bloodied face seemed so familiar, and yet, it couldn't be.

One swipe around the chin revealed the soft lips of a gentleman. She'd kissed those before, always marvelling at the contrast between them and the harsh demeanour the Batman radiated. Dabbing around the brow and the eyes, Selina knew no one would be able to deny that the person who had been bleeding over her carpet was Bruce Wayne. Her stomach clenched even as she tenderly stroked his now clean forehead. One thing was certain, it wouldn't just be him who would have a throbbing headache that night.

"Oh, Bruce..."

* * *

2041:

Would that be the sum of the reactions he elicited from the women in his life? 'Oh, Bruce': two interjections, used for the increased emphatic stress they held. The long drawn emotions the use of the vowel provided, the harsh fricatives in his name that could crack through the air if they needed to, and the sibilance at the end that could end in an enraged hiss or soften to the point where he would have to turn his heart to stone, if only to bear the voice if it continued in that strain. How was he expected to respond to those two words? He understood Martian technology, but women? They were an entirely new, complicated species in themselves.

"This is good soup," Diana said as she sat across him from the small kitchen table. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"I can only make soup," he replied.

"I see." He noted that she was careful to avoid bringing Alfred up into the conversation. That had been the last time they spoke, at his funeral. The past, it crept on him so easily, leaving a sour taste in his mouth even the broth would not wash away.

"Your successor is... impressive." Changing topic, talking about the present, with a darker Gotham and a darker knight. He could deal with that. Terry was good, he could admit that to himself, or rather, Terry was not letting himself get chased away as so many others had before him.

"He's been learning," he said.

"He is almost as driven as you were, are," Diana commented. Her amendment at the end was not lost on him, and he allowed himself a small, grim smile.

"Touché, Princess."

They made their way to the living room after, Diana carrying in a tea tray with her. Bruce was grateful for the walking stick in his hands. It made it easier to think where to place at least one of his hands. The other reached for the armrest of his chair as quickly as he could, and he made to sit down, then noticed that Diana, having placed the tray on the coffee table in front of them, had knit her fingers together as she sat down on the edge of the couch opposite. Perhaps he should have sat beside her instead. Though it wasn't too like the Princess of Themyscira to be nervous. Then again, it wasn't too like him to be nervous either.

"What is he to you?" Diana said, breaking the silence of the past five minutes.

"The boy?"

"The young man, yes Bruce." Young man. Terry was growing up. About the age Tim had been when he forcibly removed him from his life. What was Terry to him? A partner in crime? A protégé? The boy, no, the youth, had proved himself time and time again, risking his life for what he perceived to be absolution. He thought about himself, falling apart in the darkness that was Wayne Manor if not for the company of Ace. Terry had brought a vigour he didn't know he had any more. Three years ago he would not have imagined that he would be trooping down each night once again to the cave, putting fear into the hearts of criminals, albeit through Terry. Absolution. After the Joker had been put to his final rest, he had told Terry that he made Batman worthy, not the other way round. He never mentioned that Terry made him somehow, worthy too.

But to what end? Of course he'd let him get close. Sooner or later it would come to sneer in his face, that this would be another mistake, like so many before him. And it was a foolish man's dream, wasn't it? A selfish one at that. To think that he, Bruce Anthony Wayne, could ever attain it.

"Absolution."


	10. Chapter 10: In Another Life

**Chapter 10**

2009:

When he woke up dawn was just breaking through the heavy curtains. His shoulder still hurt, but he could feel stitches holding the flesh together. It would heal. The sinews of his thigh were knotting together again, he would have to see to that. The air was cool about his face, a soft relief. Wait, the air was about his face? His hand flew up to come into contact with his exposed brow. Trying to push himself into a sitting position with his free hand, he ignored the swimming darkness in his head.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the voice said to his left. Selina. He peered through his fingers at her, shoulders hunched and braced against the headrest. "Drink," she said as she approached the edge of the bed, bringing up a glass of water to his lips. He did, lowering his hand to gaze at her, waiting for her to speak again. He should be angry. At her, for stripping him free of his mask, for putting himself in such a vulnerable position. At himself, for being so weak, for letting himself be exposed.

But he was not. It felt right, somehow, that she saw him as he was. Unmasked, without pretension. He caught a whiff of sterilising alcohol. Morphine in his system no doubt, but that shouldn't be affecting him in any way, unless his tolerance build up had waned in the past few months.

"Alfred came by during the night to check on anything I might have missed out, and to drop a change of clothes," she told him, voice still remarkably calm. He wasn't sure what he was to expect. Her starting a huge rant fest about keeping his identity from her, for one, and yet somehow, he knew she wouldn't do that. Selina rolled with the punches, she was a good girl. Bruce would credit her that much, and so much more. She got up from the bed, and Bruce followed the sway of her hips as she made her way back to the counter. Most certainly not the girlish charm Barbara exuded. Every step, each gesture, so carefully controlled, just like he was. He thought of their encounters in the past, and felt guilt along with them. Barbara did not deserve his musings, even if she would never know them.

Barbara would probably be worried about him right now.

"I understand now," Selina's voice wafted through the room to him again,

"About you. About this."

"Selina, I..."

"No, Bruce, no," she turned around, face half obscured in the shadows of the room. "Don't say anything. Don't try. We've walked the tightrope too long for that, you and I."

His face was carefully schooled, breathing steady as he had trained himself to do, eyes unwavering even as his mind did. Bruce Wayne had of course kept up relations with Selina Kyle, if only at the various high society parties where they met as friends. When word had got around, as it did, that Barbara Gordon and him were increasingly in each other's company, like Veronica she had given him her best wishes with the usual aplomb. Bruce had been grateful for that, they were few among the many disappointed socialites.

"I know what you see in her," Selina continued. A twitch in his fingers indicated his surprise, and she smiled sadly, gaze on the edge of the bedsheets. "That life, that exuberance. You should watch the news clips of your successes more often. Very in sync. She's not clouded by darkness, not the way I am." She stared him in the eyes now, "I always thought Batman would never love me because it was against his stiff, uptight morals. To love a criminal, the thought. And yet, you cared. I exploited, of course, but who was to know I would care too?"

His hands were loosely clenched around the bed sheets now. "You don't like spoiled goods. Not someone as rich as you, with a vision so perfect for this hell hole."

"No," the timbre of his voice broke through, "No, you're not spoiled goods. Never think that Selina. If anyone's broken, it's –"

"Shh... Why my dear, what a terribly clichéd thing to say," Selina interrupted, a soft quirk of her lips dissolving Bruce's words before they left his mouth. He caught her eyes again and smiled back. It was pained, yet liberating somehow, that she would accept this way, that she would understand. But of course she would understand, that line they walked, that balance between light and darkness, something which awed Barbara but would only taint her if she got too close, the darkness Bruce had promised to protect her from. This, this Selina revelled in, this grey world he trudged through.

"Maybe in another of my lives."

Perhaps.

* * *

2041:

"I think Terry will be returning soon," Bruce said after a moment's pause. He got up stiffly, leaning heavily on the cane. He would have to add a new section to his morning routine, he noted, possibly the afternoon and evening ones too. It wouldn't do to have stiff joints with his increasingly taxing schedule. Speaking of new schedules, he would have to follow through with the calls he was making concerning Huang Holding's dealings, and warn Foxeteca of possible sabotages. He turned towards Diana, arms outstretched to where she was, still seated on the couch. The pensive shuttering of her eyes disappeared and she smiled, drawing herself up to stand beside him.

"Would you care to join me?"

"Be careful, Bruce, you're almost being charming."

Terry was just entering as they reached the bottom of the cave, and the results would be complete in about two more minutes. Bruce took his place in front of the screen.

"They were trying to steal something electro-magnetic, I believe," Terry said on reaching them.

"A Weapon?"

"No, more like the part of a communicator. Though that could be routed to a satellite."

"The Justice League has been scanning the orbit. Should I ask them to step up surveillance?"

"Maybe, I'm not sure. Yes just to be sure. What have you got for the component matches Bruce?" Terry turned to the screen, narrowing his gaze at the flowing numbers and diagrams.

"Almost done," Bruce nodded, "We can narrow it down to anything dealing with what you saw from there."

The screen blinked, and a list of weapons, construction machines and broadcasting technology flooded its expanse. Bruce keyed in a more refined search as Diana and Terry stood on either side the chair.

"There. that," Terry pointed to a pyramid shaped device held within a larger body, an almost circle of machinery and plutonium cathodes protruding from its shell.

"Disrupts brainwave patterns?" Diana read in surprise, "But to what end?"

"Provides magnetic pulse to disrupt orbital communicators," Bruce continued.

"It's not a weapon. It's a cloaking mechanism," Terry said, one hand under his chin, the other resting on the edge of the console as he leaned up to look at the screen. "See? Diverts human attention away from source. Shields from detection by satellite or any security feed."

"What could they be hiding?"

"It's a lot of trouble just for trafficking. Huang has been trading in dirty money since their arrival in Gotham while keeping their tail coats cleaner."

"You don't think it's Spellbinder, do you?"

"Not his M.O. Why all the word about the Chinese? Spellbinder focuses on kids to do his brainwashing, not that the triads don't, but as far as I know, the Tongs aren't too keen on working with costumed powers unless they are calling the shots. Spellbinder's ego would not let him do that. That, and he's supposed be currently incarcerated."

"All good, surely," Diana responded, still examining the specifications on the screen, "What makes you sure it's the Tongs who are behind this?"

"Apart from the Chinese company being constantly linked to the Chinese mafia? Not to propagate stereotypes or anything. Jimmy Lin's second was at the docks tonight, meeting a T."

"Hmm." Bruce gave the screen another once over before settling his chin over a clenched fist. The other hand lay half folded on his lap.

"I know. Interesting, isn't it?"

"Yes, interesting."

"Interesting?" Diana cut in. "All the decades since I first left the island, and all you men can say is 'interesting'?"

* * *

"Hey Dana, cool new bag you've got there," Max said as they tumbled out of the classroom.

"Thanks Max! My dad said he got a good bonus or something for this quarter, decided to give mum and I a treat."

"Whoever knew that scary man had a heart," Terry's voice came from over her shoulder. She turned around.

"Terry!" she exclaimed in mock scandalised tone, "He's really not that bad, you know."

"You can say that, he's your father. You're not the marked boyfriend he comes after with death threats as soon as his daughter goes missing or something."

"Well, we'll have to rectify that, won't we? How about..." and here Dana paused, swishing her hair back as she considered Terry, looking for all the world like she belonged beyond the sweaty confines of the hallway. Sure, she was as rich as Chelsea was, richer, probably in fact, but she wasn't one to go about announcing her wealth. Even the new bag she carried didn't so much as draw attention to her as enhance the beauty she did radiate. In Terry's mind, at least.

"..you come over to my place tomorrow afternoon?"

"What?"

"McGinnis. Pay attention. My place. Tomorrow afternoon. I'll introduce you to the folks. Properly." The last word was enunciated with an agonising slowness that might as well have spelt 'doom'.


	11. Chapter 11: Legacies and Musings

**Chapter 11**

"So I'm finally doing this 'introduction to the parentals' thing. Properly, you know, not just the quick Hi-Bye like the first time I went to pick her up for a date. When I still had the time to do that," Terry spoke through the Bluetooth markV that was hooked over his ear.

"Congratulations," Bruce's even voice came up over the other end.

"Yeah, thanks much, very encouraging."

"Just be yourself."

"Be a person who dresses up at night to scare the hearts out of cowardly criminals?"

"If you want to put it that way..." the mirth in Bruce's baritone was evident even as the communicator crackled as Terry walked through an underpass.

"Oh you're very good on the advice thing, you are," Terry muttered, fidgeting with his collar. "What sort of advice did you give the other two back in the day anyway?"

"Advice? None. Dick barely shared and I never asked. Tim, well there was this one time with Clayface," Bruce mused, then drew up short, "Not what I meant." Terry smirked on the other end, yet another story he would have to pry from the old man some day. Bruce continued, "No there wasn't much in that department when he was Robin. But like I said, be yourself."

Terry exhaled slowly as he rang the doorbell, listening to the chimes from the other side of the door and muted footsteps which grew closer. The door opened, Dana behind it in a casual top and jeans which flared slightly at the bottom, red thread edging the bottom as the stitches trailed back up the leg in decorative swirls. Then the imposing figure of her father loomed across her shoulder and Terry had to try his best to plaster on an as friendly and decidedly not-scared smile across his face as he could.

Sure, Bruce. Be yourself. You totally were a person who'd up the intimidation ante even when not donning the cowl. And you totally did not follow your own advice, or your Butler's, or... or anyone's really. And you were fickle. At least I'm not fickle. Well, not if you count Melanie. Oh, don't think about Melanie. Idiot, McGinnis.

"Ah! The floppy haired boy!" Mr. Tan's voiced boomed at him. Terry started. Dana's father was smiling, arms open as Dana gave him an apologetic but amused grin from the door.

"Hi, sir, nice to meet you," Terry stretched his hand out, only to have it crushed in a near vice grip as Mr. Tan yanked him forward, eyes crinkled in a jovial but still rather intimidating smile. Terry sputtered a bit as he was caught off balance.

"His name is Terry, Pa," Dana giggled as Terry's arm was wrenched up and down in the approximation of a tornado powered handshake.

"Of course, Terry, but still, it rhymes with 'floppy'. Please, come in, my wife has made some very nice roasted pork and lotus soup. You will like the soup. Very cooling."

The lunch went better than expected, at least for Terry. It had seemed that after the incident with the rat-boy, Dana's father's protective anger had faded somewhat from being directed at Terry. Finding out that he was working for the head of Wayne industries also helped.

"Much better work than that high and mighty Huang," he had declared, dipping his head in a slight duck as he continued sagely, "Never trust the Chinese."

"Pa! You're Chinese!" Dana laughed as her mother patted Mr. Tan on the arm with her own smile.

"Ah, but there are two kinds!" he went on undeterred, "The kind who work like dogs, and the kind who just are dogs. I did not help build my company hanging around with mongrels! Anyway, I was born in the year of the horse. I work hard." Here he turned to Terry, "Be good if you work hard too. You can't go wrong there. I don't want you living like those bum gang kids on the street if you want to marry my daughter."

Terry felt his neck going red. "Err..."

Dana jumped to his rescue. "Oh, Pa! We're much too young to be thinking about marriage. And you're a horse, you're also stubborn."

Mrs. Tan spoke up this time, "We hold strongly to tradition. It served our communities well after the great disaster, helped society get back on its feet."

"That and the fact that the west was looking to us to help them rebuild," said Mr. Tan. "Why the need to run after all their values when evidently we had become the new model?"

"I don't know if the systems aren't so different, sir," Terry began, moderating the speed of his words carefully, "I know Mr. Wayne values his family's legacy quite a lot."

"If he really did he would have got married, but I like this Mr. Wayne, I remember watching him on television back when we first came over to Gotham. Big man, good haircut. You can tell a lot about a man by his haircut." Oh, so that might explain the floppy-haired connection. Dana looked vaguely embarrassed, but with a certain fondness that showed she wasn't taking her father very seriously.

"That's not a Chinese tradition thing, Terry, that's just my father." And they had all laughed. Then Mr. Tan's face sank into a contemplative seriousness.

"Yes, legacy is important."

* * *

2005:

"Shayera had a talk with me yesterday," the gravel of Batman's voice bounced off the walls of the monitor womb as the panel door slid open. John settled for typing up a few more feeds before turning around in his chair.

"And?"

"She asked about her son."

John covered his discomfort at the topic by checking the time. His shift was just ending. "And?" He looked over at Batman, who stood impassive, if with his arms crossed and leaning against the doorjamb. "You told her, didn't you?" John asked when the silence threatened to drag itself out.

"Why did _you _tell her?" Batman countered instead. John couldn't find it in him to answer that point. He got up instead and headed out of the room and down the corridor just as Elongated Man showed up to take over. Batman followed.

"I also told her it was a only a possible future. Chronos did enough to muck things up."

"You think that, do you?" John asked. They had reached the cafeteria by now, and after collecting their trays of food, sat down at one of the more secluded areas of the hall. Batman's bristling through it showed he wasn't in much of a mood to entertain any other League members. His preference for obscurity was suiting the Green Lantern fine at this point, except that his obscurity was extending to his curt non-answers. He waited for an answer.

True to form, Batman answered with another question, "You mean you don't?" It seemed a genuine one. John looked up from his food with a frown.

"You're being dead serious about this, aren't you?" he interpreted Batman's stare as the equivalent of Wally's 'duh's, and went on, "You've been thinking about it."

"Yes."

"And.. you're being all philosophical and thinking about destiny." Here Batman started slightly, then shook his head.

"No. I've been... reviewing probabilities."

"Pfft, sure, you fool yourself into thinking that. I've found it easier to just not think about it. Chalk it up to Marine training."

"Clearly you haven't, John, or you wouldn't have told her." Mm, he had a point there. "You've been stewing on it more than I have."

"Look, we've had this conversation before. I'm in a very nice relationship with Mari, and I'm not going to screw that up just because the future says one day Shay and I are going to produce a kid."

"A big kid, who becomes a superhero after his mother's legacy."

"Oh very apt, like you won't have your own successor."

At this point Batman speared a bit of pasta with his fork a bit too vehemently. "That wise-cracking kid. Too young to be in that suit, really," he mused.

"And look, you care about him already!"

Batman levelled a look of annoyance at Green Lantern, who shrugged in response. "And he followed your instructions, not just the old you."

"I never thought I'd want Batman to continue after I was done with it. I never even thought I'd live past fifty. I still don't." He looked up from his tray, "And the worst part, my successor dies. Presumably the old Wayne sees that play out.

I'll be damned if harm comes to any of my current charges."

"I don't know much about destiny. But I know lots about will. And Free-will. When we had that supposed flashback into a past life, there was no Mari, and Shay and I, well, our counter parts were together. This, after that time travelling thing. But it's not fair to Mari if I just say, oh, destiny's calling, sorry love, but we can't."

"And it's fair to have your affections on someone else even as you sit yourself through a relationship you now feel is an obligation?"

John frowned. "Oh hey, that's not fair. Being obligated to Shayera would be just as bogus a relationship." He paused for a moment, then started abruptly, "and WHY is it always about me?" Batman smirked for a moment, then sobered again.

"You saw my future. I was alone."

"They'd all died. And you weren't alone. There was another Batman."

"I didn't act as if I had anything with Diana beyond being colleagues. No additional emotional recognition."

"So, what, you're going to make that come true by pushing her away?"

Batman smirked. "Call it weaning her off my potential affections."

"Riight."

"Going to that future only showed me that in all likelihood I would be a bitter old man. Why cause others undue pain in the process?"

"And yet you managed pass the mantle on."

Batman paused for a moment. "I do still wonder how that happened. Will happen. If it does."

"And...?"

A look of consternation passed across Batman's face. "And nothing."

John leaned back in his chair.

"Uh huh."

* * *

2009:

"Sir, if you might hurry, they'll be wanting to start in fifteen minutes, and you are expected to make an appearance." Alfred's voice echoed from the top of the staircase.

"Yes, Alfred," Bruce ground out, adjusting his cowl as he made his way from the Batmobile.

"I assume you'll inform them yourself when you are ready to be teleported. Miss Gordon is already there." Bruce grunted in reply, switching on the intercom.

"Ready, Mr. Terrific."

The Watchtower was filled with people. Practically all the capes who had survived the last battle were there. Once the funerals and memorials had been done with, John Stewart and Shayera Hol got into their heads that life was for living, and that everyone needed a happy event to take their minds away from the past carnage the world was trying to pick itself back from. This involved a wedding, with the Justice League in attendance, with the founding members to be seated at the front. Family, Shayera had said. Bruce had cringed at the sentiment, but could not bear to turn down the invitation, even if he would much rather have kept watch over Gotham. At least it was being held in the Watchtower, a suitable location if any, were any members required to leave at a moment's notice.

"Batman, it's nice to see you." He heard the greeting from behind his shoulder, and turned to see the Amazonian Princess decked in some of her finest diplomatic attire.

"Princess," he acknowledged, tensing, unwilling to see the slump in her shoulders at his response. They had worked together for a spell, clearing the carnage, but their last conversation had ended on a less than cordial note.

"You seem to care a lot for her," Diana had said as they observed Talia through a one way glass wall. Batman had been standing there for an hour, watching the rise and fall of her chest as she slept in the infirmary.

"She just destroyed her own father."

"But you were the one who said Ra's had numerous ways of resurrecting himself."

"Let me correct my statement then," he had said, teeth clamping over each syllable. "She has just lost her father. Even if he comes back to life, she will never be his daughter again." Diana had fallen silent but he pressed on, "Would you know what it's like to lose a father?"

Her head had snapped round as if slapped, then she had stalked off down the corridor.

But she never gave up her so very pleasant cordiality, and attempts at, well, whatever relationship they were supposed to have. Not in the weeks leading up to Tim's disappearance, and not after until Alfred had persuaded her to stop. Now three years later she was trying to renew their friendship. Again. And he...

He was being a downright prick and he knew it. Keeping as neutral a voice as possible he angled himself towards her and asked, "How have you been?"

"Oh, saving the world, keeping out of your hair, the usual," she answered, smiling as she tossed her hair back. "You?"

"Gotham."

"Of course."

Their conversation did not continue. Bruce was grateful that the ceremony began a minute after, and escaped to where the founding member's meeting room was as soon as he could. Barbara would find her own way back.

"She knows about your latest partner, you know," a bass voice said.

"Clark."

"And she approves. Likes to think that you are happy," Clark continued, unstopping. "Why are you being so cold to her?"

"She won't give up."

"I thought that was a plus point in your world."

"Why haven't you asked Lois to marry you yet?"

"Changing the subject won't help, Bruce." Bruce looked up to stare as Superman stepped into the room. He turned his attention to the array of stars beyond the windows.

"She's a distraction," he managed after a minute. "Maintaining a professional relationship with her is impossible." He looked back at Clark, and nearly spat at the sadness written across his face. He allowed his lip to curl instead as the next thought came through his mind.

"Worse still. I am a distraction. She cannot afford it." He said, fingertips gingerly pressing into the conference table through the last sentence.

"She can't afford to be your friend." Clark said, unimpressed. Bruce looked at him, considered the point with a tilt of his head, then turned away to face the gloom of space again.

Eyelids shuttered, Bruce murmured, "No, none of you can."

* * *

Damned Kryptonian sympathy. Yes, because it was conferred upon him, and he was damned, irrevocably. Bruce delivered another punch to the bag in front of him. Knuckles sank into cloth and sand. Again. Again. Again.

The bag ripped open.

She was immortal. That was the problem. If you were immortal you weren't supposed to care. Like the pantheon she subscribed to. Actions without consequence. Not bound to the rules of the dregs of humanity like the rest of them, even those with super powers. But he knew, out of all of them, he would be the first to fall, if ever. It would be him, who would grow old quickly. It would be him whose leg would act up at the worst possible moment, who would slow down as the fight wore on. It would be him who was weak, him who was frail, he who would become the greatest liability of all in the end. He could not afford that, and neither could they.

He thought of the suit he saw in the future. He'd made it so he could fly. Fly. He almost laughed at that, but it sounded choked in the cave, and he collapsed against one of the training platforms, breathing heavily. Who did he think he was? Bruce trying to play it big. Lightweight synthetic material interlaced with technology, some sort of strength enhancer in there too, perhaps a concentration force field over the material? It was possible. He had made an arm recently, mechanical, with the field generated over the fist. Could take down a truck. He would have to try it someday. A walking hospitable bed, if anything. Only prolonging the inevitable, old man.

Old. Man.

Everyone else who thought of mortality then seemed to think of settling down for life with someone else. Hell, Oliver and Dinah were planning a wedding. Wally had proposed to Linda Park. J'onn had found someone even before the Al Ghul fiasco. He thought of Barbara. It had been three years, perhaps more if you wanted to think about it. She would not disappoint like Andrea. And no games like Selina. No complications like Talia. Maybe he would get by not hurting her as he did Diana. Maybe.

* * *

2010:

"I'm sorry, Bruce," they had each said.

It had been a small, private ceremony, on the grounds of Wayne Manor. Jim Gordon had come by with his daughter. Dick and Tim had also made their way back to Gotham. Then the founding members of the League. Diana because she was stubborn, Clark too. John because Shayera had wanted to. Then of course, J'onn and Wally. Lucius had given the speech.

If any of them said 'Family', Bruce thought he would pound them into the dirt at his feet, never mind that he would likely be at the physical disadvantage. They had no right... or maybe they did. Maybe he was the one without any rights in this situation. He looked over at Dick and Tim and Barbara huddled together, at the Leaguers in another area by themselves, and Jim and Lucius looking older than ever as they contemplated the headstone.

Alfred was dead.

The rest of them had eventually been ushered into the house by Dick and Lucius. Dick's smile at him had been wane, with a pale, tight nod at Bruce before turning into the guest lounge. Tim had just looked sad. They had all looked sad. A little voice in Bruce's head whispered that it wished people would stop being sad. Bruce wondered if he was finally going mad. A hand was laid on his shoulder, and he didn't have the strength to shrug it off. Instead, his whole frame began to tremble as he gripped the gloves in his hand. He had been silent through the whole affair, mute when receiving condolences. When Dick had hugged Tim, when Wally had gone up to Dick, he couldn't find it in himself to approach them, for fear of... of what exactly? That they would see his guilt? Or that they would see his pain? Or that he would see theirs?

"Bruce." It was Diana. It was always Diana. Barbara was still hurting, and would stay away. All the better for her. At least she would be safe that way. But Diana, immortal, eternally youthful Diana, with no concept of age and loss beyond what she had seen of others, Diana would not stay away, because she had no idea of the danger. Bruce was suddenly seething.

"I will miss him too. We will all miss him. Your loss -"

"You have no idea what my loss is, Princess." He spun round to face her, ignoring the sympathy and understanding. Ignoring the twinge at the back of his head that told him his words were ungrounded, unfair.

"You have no idea what it's like. To lose... to lose..." a father. The words remained stuck in his throat. Another betrayal, another fact gone unacknowledged because he was too weak to do so.

"...To lose twice," he said. Then his eyes went cold as he looked into hers. "But you will."

"One day you will lose Wally West, and Shayera Hol, and John Stewart. One day you may even have to bury J'onn J'onzz, and Clark Kent."

"One day I will lose you," she had said with damnable calm.

"You already have. You should have."

"No," was her reply. It was infuriating.

"You foolish, idiotic woman."

"Even if you fail to admit it to yourself Bruce, to us, to me: you're still family."

Then he had struck her. His palm red from the impact and the crack resounding past his ears as it was replaced by rushing sound of blood pumping past his veins. He stared at his hand in disbelief, then at her. Diana reeled, more from shock than any sort of pain, he knew, then a steely glint came to her eyes as she stared him square in the face.

"You may think you have no heart, Bruce," she said. Tears began to drip down her cheeks, but she stood strong, solid even as the wind that threatened to blow him off his feet wrenched her hair back. "But thinking it doesn't make it so."

Hurt them to save them. Such melodrama. It was such a twisted concept, Bruce knew, even as he watched her back grow smaller and smaller as she walked resolutely to the house. Because if not, the worst happens. Like with Tim. The young man was looking out of the tall windows, seeking his face. Bruce flinched.

Of course he knew he had a heart. He choked on it every day.


	12. Chapter 12: Don't Be a Stranger

a/n: thank you to those who've been reviewing and putting this story on your update lists. much appreciated (:

**Chapter 12**

2012:

"So... you ever thought of marrying before?" John had asked another time.

"Once. And I did get married." Bruce had noted with satisfaction then the surprise that crossed over John's features.

"Oh?"

"I was under the influence of a plant." John had then looked utterly confused.

"Like a drug?"

"No," Bruce had said, deadpan, "like a plant."

It had been one of the better days, six years ago.

It was also one of those things he tended to consign to the 'weird files' as Timothy had once called them. Bruce looked up from the worktable to glance at the row of cases along the wall. The bright red of Tim's costume seemed to gleam from within it. He then looked through the trophy gallery. Remnants of old foes stared back at him. Scarface. Harley Quinn's headgear. The giant penny. There were getting dusty. No one to clean them, he noted dully to himself.

"You did get the invitation."

Bruce resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Clark, what are you doing in my city?"

"Checking up on you."

He turned a grim smile to where Superman hovered, just in front of the Mechanical Dinosaur. "I don't need babysitting." As an afterthought he added, "Congratulations to you and Lois."

Clark had the decency to look like a blushing farmboy for about two seconds before the reporter persona kicked in. "She was disappointed you didn't turn up. Why didn't you?"

"Preventing someone from taking over Wayne Enterprises, my apologies if Bruce Wayne was unable to show."

"Bruce Wayne?"

Bruce looked up, nonplussed at Clark's hesitance. "That is what they call the man you see on television, yes."

"You know, if you ever need help with-"

"I don't need help Clark, you know that."

"Sure. Right." He landed beside Bruce, looking down at the work table. "Nice."

Bruce arched an eyebrow as he glanced sideways at Clark, but decided to humour him nonetheless. "I've only just started working on it again. The project started two years ago." Clark mercifully did not try to press him further on the exact date he had stopped.

"Synthetic powered suit?"

"I could use a boost."

Clark looked sceptical, then studied the symbol design etched on the chest.

"That symbol..."

Bruce's fingers twitched as recognition passed across the Man of Steel's face.

"No different from your new outfit." He said, looking just as intently at the circuitry embossed shape.

"How can you say that?"

Here Bruce allowed himself a smirk. "I'm ditching the cape." Clark looked at him in disbelief, then snorted in amusement.

"I can't believe you just made a joke about that. You know Waller's still watching us."

"Waller has been working with us," Bruce corrected. "This makes her easier to persuade. And she also knows I'm no longer affiliating myself with the Justice League. That I never really have." He ignored Clark's scoff at that, "And from what I recall, it certainly made an impression on the populace it was used with, even though it was edged out in that ridiculous Gladiator style garb."

"No more Caped Crusader then?"

"Just the terror of the night, all that."

"You know Bruce, one day you're going to work yourself too hard. Go easy on that heart of yours." Clark said, then mentally slapped himself as Bruce went rigid beside him.

"I'm not young, Clark." The voice was soft, with a slight desperation that Clark managed to pick up.

"So let someone else do the running around for a change."

"Not an option." Bruce instinctively glanced at the row of cases again. Remembered Barbara as she fell that night with the bullet, because he had lulled them both into a dependency on the field, and he had thought she would be able to look out for herself. He forgot how easily the body was conditioned, how easy it was to feel comfortable knowing that someone was there to pick up your slack. No, he could not put someone in danger like that again, could not allow himself the complacency that came with company. Which explained the suit.

"Bruce, there are other ways. Let the Leaguers in. Or come back. Be the strategist. We could use you." Clark paused for a moment before continuing, "We still do, really, seeing as you do look over the occasional case file."

The look Bruce gave Clark was almost pained. "Me, sitting behind a screen, watching the world's heroes carry on in front of me as I relayed a set of instructions?" He looked back at the suit. "Forgive me if I find the thought utterly depressing."

They stayed that way in silence for a couple of minutes.

"What colour are you going to make it?"

"Black." Both their mouths quirked at that.

"The whole thing?"

"No..." he said as Drake's costume caught his eye for the umpteenth time that night. His hand traced the Bat-symbol on the new costume's front. "This'll be red."

Clark followed his line of vision, and he pressed his lips together in contemplation. Red, the colour of danger, a warning, of fire, and at the same time, one of courage, of strength, passion, love. Also, of blood, the heart that pumped that life force through each of them. And Bruce's heart was Gotham. Bruce's passion was Gotham, and by extension, humanity. Clark only hoped it would not destroy his own as time went on.

"You know what they say, Bruce. Don't be a stranger." He patted the silent man on the shoulder and showed himself out of the cave.

* * *

April 10th, 2010:

The lights were bright, and garish, and hurt his eyes. Bruce squinted into the camera flashes as he got out of the car onto the red carpet. But Bruce Wayne was officially a bachelor again, and had to keep up with appearances, so he slapped on his thickest grin and sauntered past. Was he alone? Yes, he was. Was the peace conference important to him? Well, of course, but what he was really here for were those very, very passionate ladies who involved themselves in such causes. Where was Miss Gordon? Miss who? Inwardly he winced, and hoped Jim would forgive him this once if he ever found out.

But the peace and technologies conference was important to him, even as he sat with a vacant smile through the pledges by various corporations and countries for greater cooperation, especially as the economy was now experiencing growth like never before. Yes. Wayne Enterprises would need to keep track of possible partners, and Batman would have to keep stock of the latest innovations soon to flood the market, innovations that could be twisted into weapons for the black market. His mingling through the buffet reception after proved useful in this. Drunken officials and company directors made his life all the more easier.

Then he saw her among the crowd, and felt his stomach drop. Of course she would be here. Themyscira's ambassador, spreading peace and good will to all men. She caught his eye, and smiled. He made his way to the punch bowl, and upped the oily playboy ante as high as he could.

"Bruce Wayne. How nice to meet you again," she said, her hand proffered. Did she actually think she was going to play some sort of game? She would regret it.

"Why, Princess!" He smiled, grin turning predatory as he took her hand and pressed it for slightly too long to his lips. When he looked up into her eyes they had turned wary. Good. "You know, this punch is quite satisfactory. Just the right amount of tang." His voice dipped as he leaned closer to her, "Quite like you, my dear."

"Bruce, what are you-" she began as he grabbed her waist and began to lead her to one of the hall's enclaves. Not two steps after their departure from the buffet tables he smoothed his hand past her waist and settled it possessively on her behind, a leer on his face. "What are you playing at?" she hissed, and made to remove his hand from her, but he grabbed her wrist with his free hand and drew her in, pinning her other arm between herself and his chest.

"Playing?" he asked airily, "No miss, you mistake me. I take things very seriously." He was almost pressing into her obscenely now. "Very seriously."

"Get away, Bruce, you know I can break your arm in two seconds." They were apart from most of the crowd now, within a window seat some distance from the main tables.

"You shouldn't attract trouble to yourself," he murmured into her ear, undeterred, "And I don't recall approaching you first. You shouldn't engage something you can't handle."

"Bruce-" she started again, weakly, looking about as sickened as he expected her to. It would be better if she did break his arm, he thought to himself even as his smile stretched wider. If it was any other person by this point, she would have.

"You're such a tease, your Highness."

"Bruce, this isn't you. Please."

"On the contrary. Maybe you don't know me as you think you do," and he crushed his lips to hers with the crudeness of an inebriated lecher, running his hands suggestively up her sides. Then he broke away and sneered at her, "You should remember that. Wouldn't want you getting hurt, would we?" He then whirled her around and pushed her towards the crowd, laughing with scorn as she stumbled slightly.

"Don't be a stranger," he called after her, sinking into the window seat cushions as he watched her enraged figure walk stiffly off.

He resisted the urge to press his fingers into his temples, and began composing his answer to what he was sure would be a soon to be enraged Clark Kent even as he maintained his rakish slouch. Sorry Clark, but I had to. He doubted the man would accept that. But if this didn't chase her away, he wasn't quite sure what would anymore.

He did find the answer to that about a month and a half later. He was almost glad for that last straw where she finally took the hint when it happened. Almost.


	13. Chapter 13: A Friend

**Chapter 13**

2041:

The sound of the phone ringing broke through the conversation. Dana got up to answer it. When she came back her eyebrows were drawn together and her lip pursed.

"Pa..." Mr. Tan looked up expectantly.

Terry watched as Dana fidgeted with the hem of her blouse before she continued. When she did he was still none the wiser as to the source of her hesitance, but he did have a gnawing sensation at the back of his head that something was off.

"It's Uncle Jimmy. He says he's coming over in half an hour, with Uncle George and Uncle Harry," Mr. Tan's eyes had narrowed as soon as the first name was mentioned.

"Did you not tell Uncle Jimmy that he isn't welcome in this house?"

"Pa..."

"Well, did you?" the man's voice had been steadily increasing in volume.

"He just called and said they were coming over for mahjong, then he hung up." Mr. Tan's jaw worked for a few more moments before he sighed and sagged into his chair. Then he looked at Terry with an apologetic grimace.

"It would seem that we must cut this lunch short."

"That's okay, sir, it was very good. Thank you, both," Terry said, looking between the worried Mrs. Tan her deflated husband.

"Dana will show you to the door."

Utterly bemused, Terry walked with Dana out of the dining room in silence, only speaking as they neared the doorway.

"I had no idea you had so many uncles," he said. Dana snorted, and turned to look at him.

"Oh Terry, they aren't really my uncles," she said, then at the increasing confusion on his face added by means of explanation, "It's a term we use to show any elder respect. We've got other names for our real relatives anyway. My father-"

"Likes tradition. Yeah, I got that bit." Now the suspicious nagging had increased. Terry decided to push further, "So, who is this 'Uncle Jimmy' then?"

"A friend of Pa's from college. He wasn't called Jimmy then, his birth name was Lin Tak-Fu."

Lin. Jimmy Lin.

Dana hadn't stopped speaking. "Yeah, he used to come by a lot when I was little. But not anymore. Pa turned on the television one day, you know that show a while back, something Peek?" Terry nodded. "Well Uncle Jimmy was on it, and Pa basically blew up. Raged on about trust and 'should have known'. Didn't let me or Ma watch it either. Now every time his name is mentioned he gets into that kinda rage." She looked back down the hallway.

"You'd better go. I'm real sorry about all this, Terry." She gave him a soft smile. Terry returned it, and touched her cheek.

"Naw Dana, it was good." When she continued looking unsure, he let his hand cup her face and touched their foreheads together. "Really Dana, real schway of your parents."

Inside his head was churning.

As soon as he got to where his bike was parked he retrieved the suit and ducked out of sight to slip into it.

"Bruce!"

"Parents kicked you out so soon?" the voice on the other end crackled into life, but the teasing tone held an undercurrent of wary alertness.

"Not so lucky. Well, not exactly. Jimmy Lin knows Dana's dad, and is visiting in about twenty minutes. I'm going to hang around and see if anything comes up. Mr. Tan seemed pretty angry about the whole thing."

"He would be, if it's any sort of underground muscling. His company is funded in part by Foxteca."

"Oh. What fun."

"Be careful."

* * *

"Well?"

Terry slipped the helmet off his head as he got off the bike, squinting at the bright screen at the other end of the dark cave.

"Nothing much. Mr. Tan effectively told them to bugger off. The word business proposal was brought up, along with good deal, and best price. Might as well have been at a fish market." Terry sighed and carded his fingers through his hair. "So we've got a cloaking machine, connections with China, and trying to force the hands of smaller businesses?" Terry pursed his lips in annoyance. "It's still not much."

"I agree. Hopefully J'onn might have something for us soon. He's working with Ryan Choi to see what they can find." At a look from Terry he elaborated, "Micron's old mentor. Took over from Ray Palmer, the Atom. He's been off the Justice League roster for a long time."

Terry made a mental note to really, really start reading through the Justice League database history. For future reference, of course. He had gone over the profiles of current members when Superman had first asked him to, and even then it had been more of their recent history, not links back to bygone eras. If it were, the search result for Superman alone would have been a mammoth task.

"Whatever they want to hide, it's going to be big," a voice sounded from the top of the staircase. Terry heard Bruce mutter about the world sneaking up on him in his old age, and tried to prevent the smile that was threatening to break out over his face.

"Why is it, that every time you come, Diana, Ace does nothing?" The dog in question was looking down the staircase from his place beside the Princess. Diana positively beamed.

"Oh, I wouldn't say nothing. He wags his tail."

"Lousy guard dog," Bruce groused in reply. Ace merely wagged his tail harder.

"He just knows I'm a friend, don't you?" Diana said, petting Ace's head before descending the steps. Bruce harrumphed.

* * *

2036:

Bruce had been looking forward to beat the pulp out of the annoying punk, knowing the idiot wouldn't pass the chance to lunge again at his back. Then a black mass of fur had jumped out of nowhere and tackled the blundering buffoon, then yelped and fell to the side. Bruce sneered, adrenaline coursing through him as he took another good look at the punk. A Joker. He hated Jokerz. Idiots didn't even know who they were trying to emulate. Kids who needed to be taught a lesson.

He soon sent the punk running down the street. Cowardly still, he noted with a degree of satisfaction.

Then he looked down at his feet, where a large black dog lay, its eyes half shut and body limp. But it was still breathing. Male, a kind of Danish mix, by the looks of it. His driver knew better than to question him when he asked to be driven to the nearest veterinary hospital.

"What will happen to him?" he asked the vet after she had examined the dog.

"Well, he wasn't hurt that bad, he'll heal. Slight malnutrition, looks like he's been on the street for a couple of months."

"What I mean is, what if no one claims him?"

The vet gave him an apologetic shake of the head, "Then I'm afraid he'll be placed in an animal shelter. You say he attacked a bystander?"

"He attacked a would be thief."

"They might still put in his records his violent tendencies. Frankly sir, he'll likely be put down in a month if they find him unsuitable to be put for adoption. Maybe sooner."

Put down. A nice euphemism for a quick death. The day was filled with death. The roses lying in Crime Alley probably crumpled and broken now, even as the memory of his parents continued to fill his mind. He looked at the yellow strip of wallpaper surrounding the clinic's room, and thought back to a person who was supposed to be 'put down', in effect. Take her down, Waller had said, like she was a machine, like she was an animal that had gone wild and needed to be.

_"I'm dying very soon, aren't I?"_

_"Yes... I'm sorry."_

_"Could you stay with me? I'm scared."  
_  
He had. And he had watched a young life ebb away before him, her haunted eyes very much like another young man whose life had been twisted by the machinations of others. Internally, he winced as the hollow eyes of Timothy Drake with slicked back hair and a white powdered face burned through his memory. Barely a child, and without so much as a childhood. He had told her he knew what it was like to be cheated out of his childhood then, but the truth was, he had at least enjoyed part of it. She hadn't even had that chance, raised in a cold lab as she had. He was brought out of his reverie as the dog licked the hand he didn't know he had placed on the table. He looked at it. There was too much death this day already, and the chill the past two weeks reminded him all the more of his own mortality as his thigh throbbed despite the extra stretches he had made sure to do in the morning.

And Tim had always wanted a dog.

Lifting his eyes to the vet, he inquired as to the availability of forms for a Dog Registration Number. She smiled, and told him they would inoculate the dog as well, wishing him well.

"Name of the dog sir? For our own records as well."

Could you stay with me? I'm...

"Ace."

"Lucky name."

He looked down at the newly named Ace, now sporting a collar, leash in his hand.

"Not really," he told the counter staff, and walked to the car, marvelling slightly that the dog came to heel so quickly. Yes Batman, balding and alone, and you still inspire misplaced loyalty. Congratulations. Or maybe not so alone after all, he thought to himself.

* * *

2041:

"Anyway, I'm heading home first. I'll be out in time for patrol, contact you then," he waved at Bruce and walked back towards the bike. Bruce activated the exit bridge, and watched as he sped off. Ace butted his palm with his nose, and Bruce moved his hand to scratch behind the dog's ears unconsciously.

"I'm surprised you haven't been at your office today."

"What can I say? I'm an old man, I need my rest." Bruce said to Diana as they walked back up the steps. His daily exercise, he thought to himself. As long as he could lay off using the elevator, he was still good. "Besides," he continued, "I can't go around micro-managing things, now can I?"

"You, not permanently in control?" Diana laughed in that infectious way of hers, "You can't fool me."

They made their way in companionable silence to the living room, this time sitting beside each other on the same two-seater settee. After a while Diana began humming a soft, lilting tune. Bruce placed it after the first four notes and turned his head sharply to look at her. Diana's eyes were shut, lashes falling against her skin. Dressed in slacks and a cotton top, she still managed to maintain a regal poise which betrayed her true upbringing. He raised an eyebrow in question as she opened her eyes, "Now I'm the sad and lonely one?"

"I didn't say anything," she replied, but she was teasing.

"Very telling."

Her face softened. "And you're not, really, anymore." She leaned back. "He's good for you."

"Ace?"

"Terry, you silly man. You know, he really does look quite a bit like-"

"I know." She turned to him now, brows lifted at his quick answer.

"You mean...?"

"Yes, I think so."

"It doesn't change anything," he added quickly. "And I did not know. I had my suspicions. It didn't take much to confirm it. And I contacted those responsible once I found that out too." He allowed his lip to curl into a sneer as he recalled how that conversation had gone.

"Who else knows?"

"Clark figured it out pretty quickly." Diana stopped for a moment, staring at the coffee table as she considered her next words. They came slowly.

"So when I asked you the other day what he was to you..."

"It doesn't change anything, I've said." He looked at Diana, face serious, "I have no claims on the boy."

"Yet he claims your mantle."

John's point to him decades earlier came back to echo in his head.

"I do still wonder how that happened."


	14. Chapter 14: The Curse

a/n: thanks to all who've been reading and reviewing!

**Chapter 14**

January, 2040:

When the phone rang, Amanda Waller had been brewing some of her favourite green tea. In later years while working with the department of Metahuman Affairs (honestly, Cadmus rolled off the tongue so much easier, they should have just stuck to that, press be damned), she had found the simple pleasure of a cup of tea very calming. Eventually it had become a daily ritual, particularly when she decided that reading the old family Bible was a good way to provide some insight into the knotted world that had become her life. Now retired, in a way, one was never truly retired in this line of work, it was time to engage her mind, and soul, she reminded herself, in other things. The phone ringing was a distraction. It was also one of the most secure lines. The caller's number was not revealed on the screen. Amanda smiled to herself. That phone was designed to reveal the most untraceable of numbers. It could only be one person on the other end. A voice spoke as soon as she had placed the receiver to her ear.

"Waller."

"And a Happy New Year to you too."

"What have you done, Waller."

"I've done many things, you might want to be a more specific here."

"You know what I'm talking about. The boy."

For a moment Waller brightened, "Do you like him?"

There was a moment's pause as the speaker was thrown off by her sudden cheeriness, before it came back in full force, ten times darker than before. "What kind of game are you playing at, Waller?"

"This wasn't a game, Batman. Or do you not go by that name any longer?" Silence on the other end. The man seemed to be trying not to explode, from what Waller could discern by the muffled sound of molars grinding together coming from the other end of the line.

"Why." It wasn't so much a question as a growl. Amanda considered this as she poured the tea into the cup, watching as some of the leaves swirled to the bottom of the china up, almost as if she could somehow divine the best answer from them. The steam from the cup swirled upwards lazily. She wondered if telling Bruce Wayne that tea was truly rather soothing would help in this instance. At her age it was no longer possible to enjoy a warm shower. Too taxing. And there were no deviously intelligent vigilantes to shock one by passing her a towel through the curtain. Amanda Waller had lived an exciting life, she concluded... which brought her back to the current conversation.

"I saw it fit."

"You saw it fit," the voice repeated, taut with sneering. "You, saw it fit. Your penchant for playing God with your ilk is not unknown to me, Waller. What was this supposed to be, very tasteful blackmail? A strategeic pawn? Insurance?"

Insurance, now there was a word Waller had not thought about.

"In a way." Before the man could answer she quickly went on, "You should thank me. The world has a Batman again."

"You're insane."

"Don't tell me you don't like the fact that you have a successor."

"I bet you orchestrated that. Subliminals through his life..."

"Oh please, don't tell me you didn't willingly let him don the suit yourself. Eventually."

"For his own good, or he would have got himself killed. He's too stubborn to-"

"Mm, just like you really. Admit it, you wanted this. You can't live without operating in some capacity. McGinnis provides that. You've been enjoying the past year."

"He didn't deserve to be pulled into your machinations. What was he meant to be, one of your Brazilboyz? His father was killed!"

"And that, hard as it might be for you to believe, had nothing to do with me." Apart of course from the fact that Warren McGinnis' psychological profile had hinted that he, like Thomas Wayne, would not stand by and let injustice be carried out, even if against a much more sinister force, something they seemed to pass on to their children. She'd heard the whole nature versus nurture debate before. Of course she had, or she wouldn't had planned it that way. "I could have had his parents killed. I didn't." Not exactly true, but perhaps fate had decided that the one assassin she was to hire was to be the one with a distinct conscience when it came to Bruce Wayne's history. Bruce Wayne in this instance, did not need to know that. "Call it destiny."

"I call it a curse."

"A curse?" she huffed, "Children are sent from the Lord above. Try not to look a gift horse in the mouth." She allowed a small pause, then said, "And his brother is yours too, by the way." A click of the phone being put down was all that answered her. Amanda reached over, brought her cup of tea up to her withered lips, and sipped at it, her hand giving off small tremors as she held the cup steady.

* * *

2012:

Batman scowled when he was sure he was alone again, a bemused smile twisting further across his face. Like a rictus, though that was perhaps too morbid. But he knew Clark, knew how to deal with him. It was easier to humour the man, make it seem like it was business as usual, alleviate his worries, if only so he wouldn't come back with his vaunted boy scout concern when he should be out saving the world ten times over instead. Because it was easy for Superman to remain in the sun, while Batman could only slink further into the shadows and the urban myth that he had erected through his city. So he didn't tell Clark that since the retirement of James Gordon he had limited his interactions with the police, that due to his routing of the entire Gotham Central Police's frequencies into the computer there was no need to, really. He didn't tell Clark that he had taken to sleeping in the suit, only accepting calls from Lucius Fox and his son even as he implemented a tighter control over his company's assests. Most of all, he didn't tell Clark that he was slowly burying Bruce into the hazy backwaters of memory, that at this point in time, for all intents and purposes, there would only be the philanthropist and business mogul Bruce Wayne, and an unrelenting Batman that stalked the night. An alert filled the screen and his head shot up from the worktable to look at it, neck already tense from the visit his well meaning ex colleague had paid him.

A sensor gone off at a construction site, one of the many in New Gotham. Easy hideouts of drug dealers, and there were too many drugs on the streets of Gotham as was. It wasn't that, however. It was a sabotage operation. Throw the current developers off the land by spooking them, along with obliterating their project. Move in. Any number of contractors, dealers, estate developers and companies shelling out cheap money to hired goons for an easy arson attack, or something more spectacular if one wished. Untraceable. A sickly sweet word that clung to the back of one's throat in an attempt to swallow it. Cough syrup mixed with slime. They picked a lousy night for it.

The man in front of him was not yielding, right now, after his accomplices had tailed like the smart vermin that they were. Batman grabbed him by the collar and hauled him over the side of the construction pit. The man stank of sweat and fear and alcohol, his eyes wide, lips trembling, but still, not yielding. Not telling him the information he needed to clean off the harder to reach stains of Gotham City. It was also the site of a future orphanage, funded by the Wayne Foundation. That anyone would want the land for a more lucrative enterprise was... unsurprising. Disgustingly so. Batman channelled his anger at the thought into a glare directed at the grunt in his grip.

"You- you can't do anything to me!" he was stuttering. Batman had to give him a miniscule amount of credit for trying to hold his ground. For being asinine enough to. The man was rambling on. "They say you're no-kill. Strictly. So you can pretend to drop me off the side of this all you wa-want, I'm no-not saying nuthin!" Whoever had hired them held more fear in their puerile minds than he did.

"Is that right?" Batman asked in soft growl next to the man's left ear. The man gulped. Batman then proceeded to tell him all the ways in which he could make him wish for death. He was, as he said, not a killer. But he knew pain. He shared pain. Barely audible, he related how many nerves there were in the hand, how many joints, and how many bones existed within the hand. He told him how the muscles attached wound their way around bone to allow it to move, but how neither would be able to function fully without the other. He then told the man how much force had to be applied to each joint before they snapped, and just how much it would hurt as each of them were broken one at a time. Then Batman smiled.

By the time the man had rattled off every (useless) contact that he had and the street corner his pals had struck the last deal at, he was a blubbering mess kneeling and choking back gasps under the looming shadow of the holy vengeance of the night. Batman gave this a grim acknowledgement. He remembered the older man he had met years back, the older him. Receding hair, face lined, features more hardened than he would ever have expected himself to be, with a cocky smug little look tipped at the corner of his mouth. He had been right, he had been much too green. It was much easier this way, to instil terror through words in ways that didn't wear his arm out. He knew now.

Force was so much more satisfying though, he thought to himself as he slung a fist into the side of the man's head, watching as he slumped into the dirt, unconscious.

* * *

2039:

The boy had taken the suit. That stupid, reckless,_ child_, had taken his suit for a joyride. He seethed. Not on his watch. The voice that came back mocking in his head however, could not to quashed. His watch? Who was he trying to kid. Infirm coward. Had he even bothered to keep a sliver of control over the company that was once his in more than just part of a name. When Lucius Fox Junior had called three times within the day, had sent couriers with reports, emails, what had he done? The man had even driven up to the manor, railing in desperation that the shares were being toppled by one Derek Powers, that the board needed to see Bruce Wayne, that he could not hold off their demands much longer, and that if he didn't show up, there would be nothing, absolutely nothing he could do.

Batman had looked at him through the dulled blue eyes of Bruce Wayne, and offered nothing. Because, as Batman whispered to himself in his mind, there was nothing he deserved except to rot within the crumbling mausoleum that had been passed down to him too early in his life. Lucius Fox Junior went away that day in bitter confusion at the man that he had built almost his entire career around. Batman had scoffed at the miserable, lined faced man that sat in his chair looking at the portraits of the people he had failed. Now that same Batman was laughing again, echoing throughout the cave as he sat there crunched over the controls, demanding that the boy bring the suit in. Always having to let children do your work for you. Because you're too much of a weakling to solve the problems that you create. Children who only thought the whole thing was some sort of game before that veil was ripped away before their eyes.

Not a good time to bring back the Batsuit, eh? Insolent. He killed the suit, a clinical press of the button, faintly noting the boy's protests as he did so. Let him suffer a bit. The suit in that frozen state would protect him from the average street thug he no doubt was fooling around with, perhaps while trashing one of the Wayne-Powers warehouses in some misbegotten notion of revenge. Derek Powers, indeed. The man was like Luthor, only with hair. And not quite so smart. But it didn't take intelligence to kill, to maim, to wound. Any animal could do that. Any coward could pick up a gun. Fingers steepled in front of his face, he felt the cool press of steel fitting into the palm of his hand, smelled the slight oiliness that came with it, a smell he could never seem to wash away. Any coward. Any weak, frail, coward. It would be better to let things end, here and now, and finally put the Batman to rest. He heard the barrel click, hammer sliding into place, imagined his finger pressing into the trigger. It was a wet, hollow sound. It happened again. No, that was real.

"...They're going to kill me."

No.

Instinct slammed his finger back on the safety, and he slumped back in the chair for the few seconds it took to get his heart under control again. He fired up the suit's beacon on the screen. Not your average warehouse. Near one of the main loading bays within the conglomerate. A sixteen year old out to stop a covert black market deal. Madness. He would get the boy to safety, then he would return. He would inform Barbara, send a rather obvious anonymous tip off. Her team would be able to get to them in time, perhaps. But the boy was refusing. A click of the button – but, what was that? His parents. The boy knew about his parents, the gunning, the cold homicide in Park Row. A punk with a gun. Again the twitch in his hand as he remembered the trigger, remembered the adrenaline that coursed through him as he stared the monster that he had become in the eye, saw the pitiful creature he was just like even as it ran off and out of the warehouse twenty years ago. Who was he to stop one McGinnis, who still knew about justice, could still fight for it? No one.

"Wish me luck," the boy said, with all the smile of Dick Grayson in his voice, bouncing through the speakers of the computer's console.

"Good luck."


	15. Chapter 15: Trios

a/n: Whoosh. It's been quite a while, and I'm terribly busy now working two jobs over the summer, so I hope you'll bear with me. Information about the triumvirates have been found mostly online, at , while the idea was got while revising for my end of year examinations.

**Chapter 15**

2041:

"Trinity."

"Excuse me?" Bruce looked up from the coffee machine in the pantry he had decided to try to coax for the fourth time that week. On the third time he had considered contacting the league to install one of their canteen ones, much more reliable than whatever inferior make the one he had apparently was. Naturally, he could've easily found some sort of higher grade wall installation type one, but if he were being perfectly honest, he didn't want to change anything in the pantry. The decor stood as it had since he could remember, technology only being used to maintain its appearance.

"Trinity," Terry repeated, "and I really don't know why you still keep that old thing. I keep telling you, there's this awesome one on sale, measures the exact temperature and strains with modulating nano fibres and everything."

"I like it, it works for me," Bruce replied, only half convincing himself, and not impressing Terry in the slightest. Terry pushed himself off the door-jamb he had been leaning on and walked in, reaching past Bruce towards the coffee machine. A few seconds later it was steaming nicely and the aroma of steaming coffee was wafting through room.

"Nah old man, I think it works for me," Terry grinned, nudging Bruce with his elbow. Cheeky. Anyway, the boy had mentioned something, twice now. Bruce turned an expectant look to Terry.

"Trinity?"

Terry looked over from the puffs of steam, brow creased, which promptly smoothed itself out again as he collected his train of thought. "Yeah, Trinity. Max was talking about some Freudian theory or something today, and I thought about you." He paused a moment, then with a sheepish look said, "That didn't really come out in the best of ways, did it?" Bruce chose not to respond, which Terry accepted with relief and continued, "You know that whole bit about the Ego, the Super Ego and Id? Yes, and well, it was during English." Terry's eyes roamed the ceiling now as he recalled whatever had gone on in class that day. Bruce marvelled that he was still able to keep his expressions and mannerisms so unconcealed, so... vibrantly young.

Despite the years now in the suit, and the filth he face every night, those harsh, bitter stains never seemed to leave their mark on Terry's person. This cleanness was something he had never been truly able to regain after the loss of his parents, though perhaps he had simply always been more disposed to the darker areas of his mind. The young man was leaning with casual poise against the counter now, perfectly at ease with his own skin where once Bruce had felt a constant itch that turned itself into the Dark Knight. Where he bristled with cold inaccessibility, Terry radiated comfortable openness. He wondered again at Diana's observation, that Terry was good for him, could Terry be the better him? But that would involve imposing who he was on the younger man, and Terry surely, and who was he to try what only a father would, however unconsciously? Terry was still talking, and Bruce steered his attention back.

"...We've been looking at Triumvirates in literature. I couldn't help thinking about how you and Superman and Wonder Woman used to be."

Ah. So that was what the boy meant by Trinity.

"And how would you have placed us?"

"Well, Max said you'd be the Super Ego, cold, collected, in charge and giving orders, err, Superman would be the Ego, who'd kind of hold the whole team together, and Wonder Woman would be Id, based on all those clips they like to play in history class of the time she almost broke Toyman's neck, and other crazy times where her, uhm, culturall gaffes have led to impulsive behaviour." Terry held up his hands in defence, "Max's words, not mine," he finished.

"I see." He actually did. Perhaps this had been the way especially in the beginning, that rough edge Diana had being so new to 'Man's World' as she called it.

"Uh huh, but see, I kinda see it different. I figure Superman's the Super Ego, because he's the head leading figure, what with his living for Truth, Justice, and the American Way, whatever that's supposed to mean these days. And you, you're Id." Terry couldn't help breaking into a grin here, and Bruce shadowed it with an amused smirk of his own. Id, the darker side, the primal, instinctive, perhaps, though not entirely applicable. It was close, Bruce could accede that much.

"Charming."

"I know right? And Wonder Woman's Ego. She understands both the whole immortality thing and pursuit of peace and happiness that Superman represents, but she's from an island of trained warriors, right? So your code of honour and methods she's got down pat as well. Tell me I'm not too far from the truth here." The boy was certainly not unintelligent, only Bruce now groused at the thought of the others on the old team doing similar and extensive armchair psychoanalysis of his person back in the day. "Then we got to trying to fit you guys to various elements, and it just got confusing." No, you would have to look beyond the three of them to see how each worked, there would always be a missing fourth, or fifth. Clark would be the Sun, Fire, Light, Diana the Moon perhaps, the Air, and yet at the same time, the Earth. And what was he? If the polar opposite of Clark he would be the Shadow to his Sun, Water to that flame, which worked for his mutability in stratagem and tactics, the Chinese might add metal, or not. It stopped mattering after a while. Useful when dealing with the likes of Circe or Klarion, not so much when trying to understand why and how the three of them kept coming together. A triumvirate, a troika, a trio: perhaps there was something in it.

"Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger. Frodo, Sam and Gollum. Neo, Trinity, Morpheus. Leia, Luke, Han Solo."

"The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Zeus, Poseidon, Hades. Arthur, Gawain, Lancelot. Religion, myths, legends. What's your point?"

"Good things come in threes," Terry said. At Bruce's pointed silence he then amended, "or at least, power is formed in threes. It's embedded in our cultural consciousness. We recognise it, and in some ways, we conform to it. I mean, it's right there in all that Lit.

"Oh. And Dana mentioned a Chinese one."

"Yes. From the Three Kingdoms: three sworn brothers."

"You know?"

"Liu Bei, Guan Yu, Zhang Fei."

"And they still figure heavily in their everyday life, especially for that middle one, Guan Yu. Like all those little alters behind their stalls? It's mostly him they pray to for good business and all that, these days even."

"Cultural consciousness, you were saying?"

"And beyond."

* * *

Jimmy Lin, clad in a pin striped suit, collar already drooping into a lapel that shouldn't exist, stood tweaking the smarmy points of his moustache. Though pin pricks of sweat were beginning to collect on his brow, his hair: slick, greased back, announced the smugness that ran through the rest of his demeanour. The twitchiness he was often known for only manifested now in his right hand, subtly in the trigger finger. That finger now was placed on the plasma screen panel. A sickly pale glow grew before the whole screen flickered into life. An imposing shadow loomed at the other end. The shadow spoke.

"So, Jimmy, how does it feel to be top dog now?" the shadow asked, a low, rich rumble which ran like black tar and cooling lava. It cut through the smog of the room, a mixture of joss stick incense and cigarette smoke, neither of which was able to eliminate the stench of human sweat that permeated its corners. Jimmy Lin gave an ingratiating smile and bowed low at the waist, palms placed together, eyes lowered.

"Oh, Great One," he said, wheedling voice reaching up through the air, "I am not worthy."

"Ah, Jimmy, Jimmy," the voice came again, singed with mirth, "I'm sure you deserve everything coming your way." Jimmy scraped even lower in response, and if it weren't for the thick coat of gel layered through his hair, the ends would have brushed the grimy floor at his feet. "I trust everything is proceeding as planned?"

"Naturally, sir, apart from a few run ins with Batman-"

"Batman," the shadow cut in, grinding out the two syllables in distaste. "Why do these aberrations insist on continuing their existence? Are they not tired of being so constantly annoying? Well? What of this Batman?" it spat from beyond the screen. Jimmy's smugness shrank a notch along with his posture as he gave the screen an apologetic grimace.

"He- he is... he is not an issue, sir."

"Well, then squash him like the mosquito he is the next time he attempts to interfere. Minor inconveniences should not hinder the schedule."

"Yes, sir, and we are progressing within the timeline."

"Of course you are. Am I not the great master strategist of this operation?" the shadow condescended. Jimmy bowed low once again.

"Yes, oh great Guan Gong. I am but your ignorant servant."

"Well," chuckled the shadow, "I suppose your ignorance is justified."

* * *

December 2005:

Batman had a headache. A headache that seemed to start at the points of his cowl's ears and extend all the way through his cape. He knew that was just his imagination, because this headache had a name: Wally West. The Scarlet Speedster, apart from being the fastest human being alive was currently also the most aggravatingly migraine inducing one. Not once had he seemed to have taken a breath from the moment Batman had entered the Watchtower till now as he sat at the control centre. The Flash had exhausted any available Leaguers in the canteen and had been making his way round the docks. Feeling his patience running thin, but somehow unable to bring himself to glower Wally's exuberant repetitions of his Christmas plans for this year (one Linda Park figuring heavily in them) into submission, he all but ripped himself away from the console after a nod at Mister Terrific, then stalked down the corridor to the viewing gallery.

Not for the first time, he wondered if he was slowly losing it by believing that he would be able to find some peace and quiet in a place such as the Watchtower. There was already someone there, staring out into the vast outer expanse, back to the room's entrance, silhouette edged out softly by the glow of space. His red cape floated slightly towards the left, but in the room's darkness he could have been a still mannequin of alabaster stone, an Apollo realised on earth, or in its orbit, depending on how one saw it. Picture perfect. Of course, Batman scoffed to himself internally. If only he would just remain that way. But no, the head dipped in recognition, and worse yet, Bruce could see that Clark was in one of his contemplative moods again.

"Quiet here, isn't it?" Clark asked, still looking out the windows.

"Not as much as I had hoped," Bruce muttered.

"You know," Clark said as he turned now to look at Bruce, who had half the mind to retort immediately 'not really, no', "Sometimes I ask myself even as I'm standing here while I'm here and not at my fortress instead. Solitude's not exactly the easiest thing to go for when you know a hundred other people are a mere speaker away."

And there was the cave. Why wasn't he at the cave?

"Then I realise after a while," Clark continued, turning back to the windows, "It's different up here." No kidding, Clark. "It's the perspective. I get to see myself as smaller, tiny, if I stand here long enough. You can lost in the stars, and more than the stars, the spaces between the stars." Micro in the cosmic universe they lived in. "You know what I mean?"

He did. But that still didn't explain his own reasons for choosing the corridor to gallery over a teleporting pod. If anyone asked, he would say it was to enable him to be at easy reach just in case, that constant teleportation did not agree with him. It was true, but not true enough. Why was man fascinated with the beyond? He had been to New Genesis, he worked with a Martian. Man had had more than enough contact with other spheres and yet, the unknown still beckoned, constantly. The stars, the galaxies, the thought and now the knowledge that there was something more, that there was more than just Gotham and its grime and soot and spittle, that for every hurt and tragedy, perhaps somewhere out there a happy ending was on its way to completion. Batman rarely indulged in idle, wishful thinking, but 'tis the season' after all. His silence seemed to satisfy the Kryptonian, and now they stood side by side, one looking further and further, the other's eyes roaming the curtain of black with swirls of dots sweeping through it.

After a moment he sensed that Clark's thoughts had wavered into the less than wistful. "Where do you think they are?" Superman's sure voice felt like it was straining to hold an invisible heaviness.

"I don't think about it."

"You? I don't believe that."

"I don't. Could you or I truly quantify what we saw? Would anyone of us, or even any of the New Gods, know where they went?"

Clark was silent. Bruce continued, "I plan for contingencies. I plan for their eventual return. I do not plan for search parties to retrieve unwanted foes."

"You think they'll come back?" weariness now, and Bruce felt it too, spreading across his shoulders and past his torso.

"Don't they always?" he permitted his normally straight back to sag forward slightly at the thought.

Clark gave an extended sigh. "I feel like Sisyphus." Bruce imagined if anything, even with his burden, it would have to be bigger, more epic. Atlas perhaps, holding the world on his back through eternity. He was not sure what was lulling him into this conversation. Perhaps the cause was the relative silence this past quarter since they had last seen Luthor and Darkseid, till the next time. Alfred's voice sounded in his head with the reminder that amiability was not a cardinal sin, nor a crime. Bruce decided to keep that in mind.

"And who would I be?"

"Odysseus," a voice spoke from behind, smooth alto bouncing lightly off the walls. Diana edged in, her circlet a faint shimmer in dark. She crossed her hands behind her back and stepped towards them. "On a long journey home."

Bruce felt his cowl loosen about his jaw as his face slackened, softening. "And here I thought it would be Thanatos," he said, Inclining his forehead towards her.

"The deity and harbinger of death? I think not, Batman," Diana teased. Bruce appreciated that she was careful not to use his name even in the privacy of the almost empty gallery. The earth seemed so whole and complete from here, even with half of it cast in darkness. Almost as if Clark could read his thoughts, the man sighed for the second time that night.

"Once, I chased the sunset for a whole day," he said, "I'd watch it go down past the horizon, then fly fast enough to watch it all over again. Ma got so worried when I didn't come home for dinner that night. It was just a week before I set off for college, too.

"Anyway, what are your plans for Christmas? Ma would really like the two of you to come by, if you could." Oh Clark, not again. Every year the invitation was extended, and each year Bruce declined.

"Monitor Duty," he grunted, drawing his cape towards himself.

He the light press of Diana's fingertips on the back of his shoulders as she laughed softly, "Oh Bruce, don't tell me you've signed up for that again. I'm sure Orion would be glad to take over for a night."

"You sure you won't join us? We'll be watching 'It's a Wonderful Life'." Batman let his upper lip curl slightly at the thought. One of the last few times he remembered watching that had been because of Dick, and even then it had been delayed by the Joker rampaging through the city. The first time after Dick had left, he couldn't bring himself to even look at the television that Christmas, sitting and with blank eyes towards the fire till Alfred roused him. Now Dick was trying to get Tim into the 'tradition', as he liked to call it, and Tim and Barbara were heading to Dick's loft that night as he came into town for a few days. Also just a call away if they were needed, they'd said.

"Monitor Duty," he repeated, "from the Batcave. I'm routing League feeds to my computer for the next forty-eight hours." That was, however, still a good half an hour away. With Tim and Barbara on duty, and now Nightwing in the area, Gotham would be fine for that time.

There was still time to stand a while, surrounded by a sea of lights floating in the further reaches of the galaxies. Christmas really was getting to him. No matter. They fell into a comfortable silence, shoulders barely touching, yet tied by the same invisible strands that pooled each collection of stars together on the dotted canvas they viewed.


	16. Chapter 16: Some Difficulty

a/n: Moving the plot just a bit forward (finally!). Comments much appreciated (: Thanks to all who've been reading so far.

****

Chapter 16

2041:

The roar of the Batmobile's engine blasted past the business district skyscrapers, causing some of the window frames it had got to too close to shiver as its reflection sped by. From within it Batman ran his fingers along the console's metallic surface, making contact with the communicator tile.

"What are we looking for here?"

"A ripple, anything," the guttural voice of Bruce Wayne crackled through Terry's receiver.

"This thing is supposed to divert both biologic and cybernetic attention. I don't know if-"

"Try." Static on the other end as Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. The cloaking device on Batmobile itself was top notch in its camouflaging technology. Amplification of environmental noise, which included, if the situation required it, the ability to amplify silence. Clark said it felt like being surrounded by water under the ice caps once when he'd been tuning it once on the old Batplane. Over the course of time he'd developed it further, refined its precision with each new scrap of technology that could be rendered useful.

But this… this looked like the actualisation of certain stealth tech developed during WayneTech's collaborations with LexCorp. They had been put on hold in favour of the T-7s, probe droids Luthor had later bastardised for his power hungry aims. Level 5 security, encryption algorithm ahead of its time with an additional cipher lock designed by Luthor himself. Technology had advanced, yes, but production for the parts that the T's were attempting to steal had only begun in the previous year, and the only reason why the computer could combine those components during analysis had been because he had the rubrics and designs on file. It was worrying. Could someone have found the files after the Ai-lat take over? It would make sense then, if Huang were involved, that they were trying their best to buy the company piece by piece.

But to what end? And why was the ante upped so high? Project Delta Dissimulator, it was now going beyond simple ground level radar to international network and life form diversion. It made no sense.

Terry in the meantime was growing increasingly restless. Crazed scientists and random punks were a walk in the park, but this? Looking for something that neither you nor your computer could see, that scrambled your brainwave patterns. It was something big, bigger. J'onn had sent word from Hong Kong that a hush had gone through the underworld there. It was not a pretty silence, not a quiet. It was a churning, a roiling, building, and Terry felt his gut churn along with it at the thought. He swerved past the Huang Holdings main headquarters again, third time circling, trying at all angles to look for something abnormally too normal, from the corner of his eye, without the visor. Nothing was working, and the whine of the engine ran like sheets of metal through his skull.

"Want a break from the monotony?"

"What I wouldn't give."

"Street cameras show a T – Jokerz confrontation. Six o'clock. Straight down." Terry cranked the left throttle towards him while slowly pushing the right in front as he made a half loop before shooting in the opposite direction.

"On it." His right hand reached for the panel in front of him, which gave a minute chirrup of acknowledgement before the straps about him flew back and the top of the Batmobile slid open. He surged out; arms stretched to the purple sky, then fell backwards into a corkscrew dive, face twisting into a smirk even as his body twisted sharply towards the collecting youths. This wasn't the usual crowd, he noted as he descended. New recruits, it seemed. He might even go easy. Might. He righted himself at fifteen feet and killed the jets, dropping feet first.

Ploughing into the back of the biggest thug there, boots straight into the folds of the lumbering mammoth, he pushed off it and flipped back into a half crouch, one knee bent, the other leg stretched out to the side and he fingertips of one hand grazing the ground as the other bent towards his utility belt. The T half spun, then crashed on his side as all the others fell back, fear in the whites of their eyes. He half expected all of them to scatter. Most seemed to have. He narrowed his eyes at the remaining dozen. Would be brilliant though, boys, if you want to dance. He steeled his jaw in anticipation. Come on, come and get it.

What he did not expect was for the Jokerz and Ts to step into a formation. Together. Then static came over from the communicator. Terry remained in the crouch as he heard the clack of fingers on keypads coming from the other end.

"Terry, what's going on?"

"You seeing this?"

"Worse, I'm seeing nothing." Oh hell no. His smirk turned grim.

"I suppose I've found what we're looking for then. At least I can see them."

The T nearest to him lunged. A simple counter was all that was necessary. He knew. He'd been trained. He'd bathed in the sweat of worse than this two bit, wet eared little punk, younger than he was by the looks of it. A side step, a block, a twist and a throw, that was all. Only the side step didn't happen. Just as he was about to move, a shimmer from the reflective material of the thug's jacket caught his eye, distracting him enough for the T to land a hook square in his jaw. Terry was propelled backwards, landing into a tighter crouch, shaking away the dizziness and confusion. That wasn't supposed to happen. C'mon McGinnis. Reassess. Looking up did not make things better. Each time he tried to pinpoint the location of each gangster, his eyes would slide elsewhere: to the pavement, to the gravel on it, to the sign over the door of the building across the road, to the clouds above that seemed to circle around them, edging him on.

"Slaggit."

"What's wrong?"

"I can't concentrate!" suddenly he toppled forward, his chin striking the ground as he was floored by the weight of bulging arm to the back of his neck. He hadn't even noticed, and the suit could only take so much. He heard a low chuckle from above, and giggles to the side of them. They were faint, as if from behind a glass. The thick sole of a boot lowered itself onto his fingers as he tried to push off from the ground and crushed them slowly even as his head swam. Too many around him, the effects were intensifying into a sickening ball around his mind.

"Get away. Stat." Squeezing his eyes shut, Terry clung to the sound of Bruce's voice, activating the jet boots and shooting straight up into the sky. When he figured he was high up enough, he let his eyes open to slits and peered around him, finding himself facing the moon. Good, something to focus on. Breathe, McGinnis, breathe. "McGinnis, are you alright?" the normally brusque voice had an even rougher tinge to it. Bruce sounded… tense.

"Keep talking." Now an abrupt pause answered him as the older man was nonplussed by his request. But Bruce acquiesced, and in low tones relayed instructions, told him the jet was on its way. Terry exhaled slowly and entered the strange comfort of red effulgence coming from the Batmobile's interior, focusing on the words fizzing through the comlink.

"...There were about thirty of them before they disappeared off the vidlink." Thirty? Terry shook his head, he'd only thought there were twelve in total, thirteen max. This wasn't good, at all.

"Then it's more serious than we thought," Terry muttered as the Batmobile swung into the cave, scream of engines being replaced by the flutter of bats overhead as he clambered out. He drew the cowl back, letting out a noisy exhalation of frustration as he did so. Bruce noted that he was carding his fingers through his hair, a habit his protégé tended to fall back on when particularly vexed.

"What is it?" Terry's head snapped up from where it had been considering the floor of the cave at Bruce's question, hand now kneading the back of his neck, then shook his head dolefully and gave a shaky laugh.

"You know how it goes... I could've had a REAL job, but noooo, I had to be a clown in a mask and a... hmm. Well okay, sans cape."

Bruce blinked, eyebrows contracting minutely, nonplussed.

"You don't know that? How can you not know that? You know about ruby slippers but… neh." Terry rubbed the side of his face. "Eh... after your time, I suppose. Way before mine though. You sure you haven't heard it?" Silence. "Really?" At Bruce's continued stone stillness Terry pursed his lips and addressed the space of the cave as he connected a fist with the palm of his other hand. "Because, yes, indeed! Terry McGinnis counters exasperation with levity." He let out another sigh before collecting his thoughts and turning to face Bruce.

"You said thirty odd, right? Hoods."

"Yes, why?"

"The group I fought? About a dozen. Thought the rest had hightailed." He watched Bruce's face darken into a more forbidding mirror of what he suspected his own eyes conveyed. "Yeah, exactly."

"And the Jokerz and Ts-"

"Working together now, unless those were fakes."

"They looked fake to you?"

"No. Hadn't heard much of the gangs for a while though. 'Guess we now know why." A knuckle found its way to Terry's upper teeth as he bit on it slightly, elbow resting on the other arm as he stared at the computer screen, still showing a security feed of the area he had just returned from.

Bruce rested his chin on steepled fingers. "They weren't gathering for a showdown," he said, then pressed his lips thinly together. "We need to take a look at whatever's there. Scan the entire area."

Terry blanched. "But you know if anything is there, nothing we have can pick it up?" How could you follow a trace when there was no scent in the first place?

"We use something that does." With that Bruce's eyes shot to Terry's as he stood up too fast for a man his age, and began making his way to the elevator. Terry followed in silence. They entered the old study, and Bruce made his way to a side panel, sliding it open. A metal cabinet stood there, built like a safe with a glass door, black contoured bricks and cylinders sitting within it. It opened with a sliced clink, and Bruce crouched down in front of it, offering one of the brick like objects to Terry, then took another one himself.

"That's a Lecia M7."

"A what?"

"A rangefinder camera. With full manual available. Can even be used without batteries, that one."

Terry ran his fingers over the dials and buttons along the outer casing, then the neoprene surface of the body. "Where's the viewer on this thing?" he asked, looking into the reflection of the lens. Bruce reached over and flipped it over, angling a finger towards the minute rectangular window near the top. He held up his own in his hand.

"This one here's a Canon AE-1. They both use 35mm film."

"Where we get our current digital format size from."

"Exactly. Only this isn't-"

"Digital. Schway," Terry said with admiration, rotating the camera in his hand as he examined it further."Totally should've paid attention in those museum trips we made in elementary."

Bruce answered with a small huff, close enough to a chuckle for Terry to grin as he held up the device, wrist flopping back. "I'm guessing here you know where to get the memory stic- the film? The film for this," he finished. Bruce had made his way to the door by now, having packed a few of the lenses into a nylon bag. His back to the room, he gave a small jerk of the head in Terry's direction, his equivalent of a nonchalant wave.

"Of course. Being Bruce Wayne has its perks."


	17. Chapter 17: History Which Never Was

a/n: terribly sorry to anyone who's been following (plus a very big thank you for doing so). Well, first it was two jobs, now it's settling into first few weeks of term, and between all that it's been hard to even pop by the forums. This though I've been playing around with in my head for a while, so churning it out as a celebration to half of registration done for courses wasn't too much of a problem. So let's throw some complications into the mix!

****

Chapter 17

Lillian Keens sat at her desk powdering her nose. Having just got back from her journey beyond the office tower's glass double doors, she pondered yet again why she continued patronising the lousy hot dog stand from across the road. For that matter, why she continued living in Gotham, land of poo, when she could ask for a divisional transfer to Metropolis instead. The midsummer heat seemed to be extending into late autumn and was turning the streets into a glorified stench of rot and sweat as disgruntled white collars tugged at the supposedly dry-fit nylon apparel that stuck like flypaper to the back of their necks. The air felt like it was on a warpath to slowly fumigate the city, while the dredges contributed to it by night with the damp trash they burned in the under roads and passes winding through lower Gotham. No matter how immaculate the shining towers of the central business district looked as they climbed towards the sky, you only had to walk through the streets to feel the heavy decadence that sank into your clothes and never came out.

Just as she was about to bite into the hotdog simmering in front of her, the doors were pushed open and the still imposing figure of Bruce Wayne stepped through. Lillian considered him. Like an aged demigod, he still looked as if he was cut from fine marble, or at least granite, only instead of crumbling away, the edges just seemed to get sharper. Bruce Wayne approached the desk, and looked down at Lillian's hot dog paused in its journey to her half open mouth, arching his eyebrows, making him look all the pointier. Lillian found herself unable to speak. Looking down at the name plate, the arch of his eyebrows flattened slightly as he made eye contact. He cleared his throat briefly.

"Lillian, is it?"

Lillian blinked.

"How long is your lunch break, Lillian?"

"Ha-half an hour, sir?" she stuttered.

Bruce Wayne's eyes narrowed themselves as he focused on the clock on the wall over and behind Lillian's head.

"Much too short." Bruce Wayne took out a pen (he carried a pen!) and a small notebook from his coat pocket, tearing a slip of paper off cleanly and scribbling down a note before signing it off. "Hand this to your department's head. It's about time Wayne Enterprises rethought its employee work hour expectations, I do think." A dumbfounded Lillian took the note and placed it under her keyboard, not quite registering the fact that there was drying, handwritten ink on her desk, not the least that it came from Bruce Wayne, owner of the company she'd been working for since her graduation.

Bruce himself straightened his already immaculate self and went through the corridor towards the lifts again. He had been making a point of utilising the main building lifts instead of his private one, getting to know some of the staff again, becoming a face instead of a name on a place holder or in the news every so often. It helped some, built a quiet loyalty you would otherwise be an unknown figure to. After years of reclusiveness and Powers slowly poisoning the money that was the Wayne legacy along with the workers under its care, there was more to be done than just dragging the company out of shady deals. The company had to move with him, willingly. Powers never understood that, just like Luthor before him, and any corporate despot before and after that. People who bred battery farm loyalty through fear and corruption, corruption that had seeped through every level of his company and was taking its time to get weeded out. Under table handshakes, and under-the-tables of the less tasteful variety. Anyone would've told you, 'This is Gotham, what can you do?'. Bruce would grind his teeth and growl 'not in my city'.

So here he was, trying to reinstate the work-life balance of the regular white collars that Wayne Enterprises used to be well known for, bringing back the scholarships programmes to attract well deserving talent. Once upon a time he wouldn't have cared, not given a dime. Let the prodigal that was Gotham itself destroy it, he'd had enough caring, he'd done enough, and he'd failed enough. Now though... he wanted something more than the old crumbling house of his fathers to pass on.

* * *

"Oi Terry, remind me again why we're here?" Dana called over Terry's shoulder as he panned away from her to the grey walls across the street.

"You said we needed to spend more time together," he mumbled into the camera he was peering through.

"Yeah," Dana replied, flipping her hair off her face in annoyance, "together. Not you, me, and a very uninteresting landscape that seems to hold your attention more than I do." She punctuated the last word with a sharp jab between his shoulder blades. A spot between his shoulder blades that just happened at that point to feel like it had been smashed through by a meat tenderiser. Terry yelped. He cast a wounded (no kidding) look to Dana, before sighing and moving to sit on one of the street benches.

"You're right," he said. "It's just... the old man really needed some stuff done, and..." he cast an exasperated hand out stretched to the sky as he leaned back to look up at it. They were so close. Just off the main central District and into the older part of Gotham, where brutalist architecture seemed to creep in on even the alleyways and post boxes. Frustrating enough that he didn't know what to look for, but the wait, the fact that all this would have to wait for hours after he got back to the cave and Bruce developed the photos properly was eating into him. And he wasn't doing Dana any favours. A doleful smirk alighting on his mouth, he looked to Dana and gestured to the spot beside him. "Let's just sit here a while, yeah? I think I've got what I've needed for now."

The place was not a popular one, at least not in the day, which gave them a reasonable amount of peace and privacy. True to Gotham's form, that peace was shortly interrupted first by a scream, then two. Dana shot up ramrod straight from where she'd been leaning on Terry's shoulder and gripped his arm.

"You hear that?" she asked. Terry was already poised to run to the source, one hand ready to push off from the stone bench underneath him, muscles tense.

"Stay here, Dana," he said, voice soft but edged like a knife.

"No Terr-"

"Stay here," he repeated, eyes softening as he looked at her before steeling themselves again, "Or better yet, get up to Gotham Central. Call the police." Terry turned away from the pleading eyes of Dana, "Someone's in trouble, Dana, I gotta do something." He ran off. Dana sat there a moment, paralysed by the shock in turn of events, before shakily taking out her mobile and dialling Gotham police. A chill wind contrary to the previous blazing heat swept through the street, and Dana shivered, pulling the still warm jacket Terry had left in a discarded heap towards her as she stood up.

The screams had come from the corner of a deserted lot just round the corner. Terry saw a pair of hoodlums edging in on two girls backing into an enclave. The roar of cars on the highway overhead which blocked the light crashed like waves about his ears, but once again the screams pierced through that as clear as a bell. Gritting his teeth, he crept as silently as he could in the shadows, watching the backs of the attackers, no, would be attackers, listening to their taunts, observing their build. On the scrawny side, really, if you considered it. Easy takedown, no different from the street brawls he used to get himself into.

"Leave us alone!" one of the girls shrieked, swinging her handbag at them. One of them, stooped over and with longer arms laughed sickly as he caught it in his grip with one swipe, and tugged hard. The handbag was yanked cleanly into his possession. The girls stepped further back, making contact with the wall behind them. Just as the hoods looked about to pounce, Terry moved in, knocking one out with a pebble he'd picked up on the approach, and launching himself at the other, bringing him at the girls' feet with a satisfactory crunch. He let the adrenaline course through him a while as he inhaled deeply. It'd been a while since he'd done anything without the suit, let alone take down two thugs with less than ideal light with which to do it.

"You girls okay?" he asked as he made to get up.

"Sure," one of them said, the flippant manner causing him to pause.

"Oh yeah, real sure, more than sure," said the other. Terry's eyes widened, and he looked up to see two grins and hear a metallic crackle before blinding yellow and pain exploded behind his ears.

"I think we're more than okay, aren't we, Dee Dee?" said Deidre.

"I think you're right, Dee Dee," said Delia as they tore wigs off their heads to reveal shocking ginger locks of hair. "I can't believe that old trick worked, Dee Dee."

"Well, Dee Dee, guess old Nana's attic's good for some stuff after all."

* * *

When they had first appeared on Terry's vidlink, Bruce didn't want to believe it. Now that he was seeing them in person, he couldn't help the feel of ants trying to crawl their way through his skin.

"So debonair," one said, giving him just enough time to produce enough lack of reaction for him to curse himself for later.

"So dapper." Air forced out of him as a knee was accurately applied to his solar plexus. Sparks, yellow and angry, were already beginning to tear at his vision.

"So decrepit." And he was flung like the rag dolls these two demon children dressed themselves as into the hard plastic of the stage which chafed his knuckles and jaw as he skidded over it. He supposed he should be grateful that all that was in Woof was splicing DNA and not a retractable rotary saw. Then he saw the Joker appear through the smokescreen, and past, present and future-past seemed to collide. He heard Tim's helpless screams, raw and jagged and hoarse. He saw yellow, furious, intense yellow as it reached its long whiplash tentacles and wound around a wrist, an ankle, and heard someone else scream, someone he had long thought he didn't know but since the year before had taken on the face of one Terry McGinnis. The acrid smell of burning, agonised flesh found its way to his nostrils and he retched uncontrollably.

Then he woke up. Trembling hands found their way to a clammy forehead as he in shook away the remnants of the dream. They were... embellishing themselves, he thought with distaste. When Terry had first arrived at his gates, the nightmares of running through that damp ruin of Arkham intensified, the sound of buzzing electricity followed by screams growing louder and louder. The charred stench really only came in after he had decided to dig out a heavily encrypted voice file at the back of an old, partitioned drive in the cluster. Now these dreams just seemed to coalesce in on themselves. Tim, Dick, Barbara getting shot, his parents getting shot, but Terry mostly featured these days. The thought that he had seen him die, even another him, caused his stomach to churn even as he sat at the top floor of Wayne Enterprises in his office suite, sun shining down on him not warming his skin a bit. Here, in a darkened room with heavy curtains and austere if ascetic furnishings, the thoughts would only get heavier, colder. Knowing the possible futures, he had decided to let another young person wreck havoc in their own lives in the name of healing. His father was a doctor in his time, that was healing. This... this was...

But no. That Terry- that Batman hadn't had the time to be trained as he had ensured Terry was, because that Bruce had never seen his protégé die, was never haunted not just by the failure of those still living, but of one already dead as the entire universe broke apart before you. This time, this was different, it would be different. He'd made sure of that when he trapped Chronos in his own making so many years ago. He wouldn't tell Terry. What the boy didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

'Or would it?' The niggling voice would taunt him.

He ignored that voice in favour of answering the phone that was ringing. So much for naps. The voice on the other hand gave him pause, and the words stopped him cold.

"Bruce, it's Barbara. It's Terry." Two words, and he dropped the phone to the floor. It bounced harmlessly onto plush carpet even as an anvil seemed to drop on his skull.

"Not again..." he didn't even know the words were pushing their way through clenched teeth as he sat down on the bed and gripped the sheets in his massive, aged, useless hands.

Not again.


	18. Chapter 18: Nothing

a/n: Right. Not too sure about this chapter. It kind of wrote itself, this one, and yes, stalls when it comes to plot a bit. But hopefully I'll be able to tease out the parallels I'm trying to draw in Bruce's experiences over the next few chapters. Any comments/crits very much appreciated (and grammar misses), and thanks to all for reading!

**Chapter 18**

2006:

"No, no I don't believe that, Turner," Dick laughed as he leaned further back into the couch he was currently slumped upon.

"I'm telling you, man, Redhorn, spotted boxers," his friend laughed beside him, "and they never caught the joker who loosened the bolts on the toilet door."

"I'll bet not," came a voice from behind them as Kaitlin swung herself over the side of one of the armchairs, a glass of punch in her hand. George had suggested 'juicing it up' on the way back from the store, but knowing that they could be on call any moment, the rest of the team had rather sensibly deferred on this, one of the rarer nights when most of their batch were off duty.

"So, bud, you need to now regale us with stories of richness and grandeur." George Turner said as he sipped on a can of beer that he had procured for himself, nudging Dick slyly in the ribs. The rest of the gang murmured amused assents, causing Dick to lift up his hands in mock surrender.

"I've not idea what you're talking about. Aww, c'mon, guys."

"Nah, pal. Not since we've found out that you were the ward of Mister Bruce Wayne," the last name was rolled off his tongue and thrown in the air where it seemed to float with strip lights outlining it. Pink strip lights. The intended audience oohed on cue in appreciation. Dick smiled and shook his head, letting his head fall to the back of the couch.

"You guys know already, it was a big hous-"

"It had two wings. You make it sound like it was just your larger than average bungalow," Kaitlin burst in. Jake, seated on the floor beside the coffee table, looked up at and cocked and imaginary gun in his hand which he pointed at Dick.

"Now look 'ere, son," he said, squinting at Dick and deepening his voice in joking menace, "We just want to know what this, ehm, this Mister Wayne was like, see. The butler and huge amount of pocket money you had we've got down pat." Everyone chuckled, including Dick.

Dick took in a deep breath. "Bruce?"

"First names, we are!" Dick cast a half annoyed glance at the voice, waving it away with a hand and a grin.

"Not much to say." Awws of disappointment resounded in a chorus, and Dick folded his arms till they were silent again. Though really, what was there to say about Bruce? That he was a cold faced small hearted little man who didn't really offer much in the familial department? Or that behind that you could tell that he did actually care some, and that probably was the most frustrating part about having to live and, well, generally share the same breathing space as him, breathing space possibly being a two mile radius? Because the man just would not show it.

"He was pretty busy most of the time," he began. Well that much was true. "Mostly business."

"And a busy nightlife, I'll bet, eh,?" Turner said, waggling his eyebrows. Dick laughed heartily at this.

"You guys have no idea..." he grabbed a handful of chips from the bowl in front of him and let the intermittent speculation begin. Busy nightlife, indeed. Yeah, chasing a bunch of criminals, not so much being a ladies' man contrary to the media. Dick grinned at his colleagues, though still feeling the strange urge to defend Bruce somewhat. Make up for all the times he'd made fun of him.

"It's not what you think, guys, he actually was a pretty good role model," when it came to justice, hardball, and intimidation (very helpful in police training). A couple of modules in angst on the side if you needed it, too.

"For the ladies?"

"Anything but!" See now, that much was pretty true. When you had a father figure, big brother figure, ack, someone you-really-looked-up-to figure who kept stopping himself from expressing any show of concern, or approach the dreaded L-o-v-e word, it didn't do very much for your emotional development. Alfred was a godsend in this department, for the both of them. The conversation began diverting to the recent developments in Turner's mishandled love life (fitting really), and Dick left the group and walked towards the kitchen as the phone began ringing. Taking a casual sip from his glass, he picked it up and placed the receiving end to his ear.

"Grayson here."

"Dick," the baritone was familiar, and strained. The voice came again, "Dick. I need your help."

Bruce never asked for help. Bruce asked, no, Bruce ordered you to check out Zone 5 in the north east precinct while he did the south side, or at best, he _requested _some information about the underworld dealings between Gotham and Bludhaven. Bruce did not ask for help. Then the word 'Tim' cropped up, along with 'missing', and Dick Grayson felt his throat go dry and ears go deaf in an implosion of sound.

"I'll be there as soon as I can," he managed. Now to tell the rest that the party was over.

* * *

The cave was about as dank as it had ever been when Dick descended its steps, but it was the uneasy silence that caused the hairs on his arms to raise. It seemed that even the bats knew that the main other occupant was in a dangerous, tenuous mood. There was barely an echo as his feet hit the metallic surface of one of the platforms, the absence of the clink somehow eerier than if it had been there. The air was heavy. Bruce stood unwavering in front of the screen, fingers moving endlessly across the keyboard. His shoulders were stooped, hunched over in an almost gargoyle like fashion, mimicking the many sentinels that grew from Gotham's skyscrapers.

"Bruce."

Batman turned his head a mere fraction, a nod of acknowledgement that would have otherwise gone unnoticed in other company.

"How long?"

"Thirty seven hours, now." Long after a missing persons report had been filed, no doubt. Dick felt a tightening coil in his gut, almost feeling insulted that he had not been told before. He quashed it. He'd been on an extended tour of duty the past few hours before as it was, and Bruce must've known that. Trust this time for Bruce to step aside when it came to his life. Dick winced at the irony, and it didn't stop the uneasiness that threatened to kick him in the stomach with explosive panic now. People had gone missing before. Even him. Regular part of the hazards of the job, as it were, but Bruce's reaction now was getting to him. Or had it always been this way? Had he just never noticed?

"Thirty seven hours and nothing," Bruce ground out, pressing both palms into the edge of the console, leaning on it as if it were the only thing holding him upright. Dick suspected that wasn't too far from the truth. "Barbara has been sent home. We have spent this whole time trying to even gain one lead. Nothing." Bruce clenched a fist and turned around, pounding it into the armrest of the chair behind him, then surged away all cape and fury and loathing to stare at the empty uniform case against the wall.

"Bruce." Unsure, Dick reached out a hand to his shoulder. It had been hard, years ago, when he saw his mentor turn into a soulless machine that disregarded the very fabric of family that Dick had tried desperately to piece and hold together since his parents' death, a cloth he had thought that at the very least, Bruce would be cut out of. Even a little bit, even if the cloth was just patches on the torn jacket sleeves and trousers of the emotionally closeted older man. It had been hard, thinking perhaps that his take on things had been clouded, tinted in a hue of juvenile angst that came with growing independence, that his initial lashing out had been unfair. Coming to terms with the fact that yes, things changed, he changed, and that was that. He changed. Well, so had Bruce, and so would Bruce, and that was that. Such was life, as they said, and his methods, often seeming so contradictory, were at their core out of concern for his fellow man. The years had helped Dick come to terms with all that. Now what was hard was looking at the man that even in his coldness could wield a stolidity and control so masterful it commanded obedience and deference show signs of crumbling. The man's huge frame was still, but Dick could feel the muscles drawn taut over the frame, tense.

"No note, no demands, no word. Streets are silent. The only thing that cropped up was..." and here Bruce's voice made a miniscule hitch. Dick had to concentrate on his own breathing before he collapsed under the weight of his mentor's emotional burden spilling over to add to his own.

"...cartel."

Trafficking. Of course. They'd got wind of a South American ring making inroads in the seedier areas of the east coast. Children, boys or girls, it didn't matter. For drug peddling, couriering, cage fights, and other illegal activities that made Grayson's blood run cold and boil at the same time just thinking about it. And the grooming process involved, the way they broke you.

"Tim did say that he'd picked up something about it a week ago. But I put him under strict orders not to investigate on his own on the ground." Bruce looked up now at the cave ceiling, its abyss corresponding to his thoughts. He shook his head absently. "He wouldn't have."

"We'll find him. We'll bust every ring and cartel in action if we have to." Dick said, trying to inject some sort of authority into his words and failing miserably. Bruce didn't seem to notice, even seemed to gain strength from them as he straightened.

"I understand if your commitment to your city prevents you from assisting..." Bruce began. Funny how his acknowledgement and benediction of Dick's chosen residence had to come at a time like this.

"Hey," Dick cut in, "I'm here now, aren't I? He's your ward, isn't he? Kinda makes him my brother. Maybe Bludhaven's my city now. It doesn't stop this from being family." He almost wanted to bite his words back as he sensed Bruce slumping even further mentally. Of course the callous, rigid brute cared. Batman and Bruce Wayne were both eight years old every night, and every night they set out to stop another life being mindlessly gunned down, falling like so many pearls glinting in the streetlight. That was bad enough. It was worse when it was someone close, even if Batman would never admit it.

"Can you go undercover?"

"I'll get all that back log of leave cleared out."

"I cannot let Barbara go out alone." The man was scared. He didn't want more losses, and yet, he couldn't stop Barbara from doing something, or had no strength to, even for her own safety. Barbara had less experience, not just in their field but of life in general. He'd thought once that Bruce was selfishly exposing her to danger when he included her in his circle. Now he would hazard a guess that Bruce partly believed that circle a circle of protection for the younger crime fighter. And now he was scared, not that anyone except those who knew him well would be able to tell. But Dick was one of those people, and Dick knew he was afraid. This scared Dick.

"Don't worry, Bruce. We'll find him." He didn't know then that they would still be at a loss three weeks later, when Bruce's dogged pursuit, wearied and with increasing frustration was more with the hope to reclaim a body than any living soul. Undercover, he would report his findings long after even Alfred had retired, let alone Barbara in the cave. He would move through each cartel, infiltrating and busting each trafficking movement between Gotham and Bludhaven, seeing the empty eyes of children sequestered in containers and backrooms, cursing the people who would exploit them in such a fashion, cursing himself for not being able to spot the eyes of Timothy Drake among them, and hoping against horrible hope that he was actually among each crowd he encountered while knowing that those eyes, hopeless and helpless would be the stuff of his nightmares in the years to come. He received that fateful call from Bruce just before he and Barbara sped away to the Arkham ruin as he was engaged in rescuing about fifty children from a ship about to depart for Honduras. Even then, he didn't know that what had happened to Tim was so much worse.

* * *

2041:

Barbara Gordon sat at her desk with a pinched expression on her face as she reached for a flask of the strongest coffee she always had prepared for nights like this. She took off her desk phone headset and began pacing the office absently. The girl, shivering and in tears had been found beside a motorcycle towards the fringes of the central sector, a brown synthetic leather jacket wrapped around her, and what she had recognised as an old school camera on seeing it. So far there had been no ransom note, though the words 'HA HA' had been scrawled, no, burned into the old concrete where Dana Tan, the girl, had said her boyfriend had run off to. That boyfriend happened to be Terrance McGinnis, better known in some circles as a juvenile troublemaker turned personal aide to Bruce Wayne, and in even smaller circles as Gotham's current Dark Knight.

To say that Barbara was worried was an understatement. To say that she was also furious would be hitting the nail smack on the head. She had told Bruce. Warned him. Warned the boy as well when she first found out. Then they had inevitably gone complacent. That was it. She'd lowered her guard again, as if the bite of bullets in her shoulder had not been enough, as if watching Timothy Drake's lost eyes through his time of therapy for months were nothing but a dream. Barbara had long stopped entertaining the notion of heroes and the glory that came with it. There was too much at stake when you began trying to live the life of myth. Wasn't that a paradox anyway? Human lives were grounded in so much reality. Her father was a hero. Her father was a cop, and a good one too, and god help her so she would be. Playing dress up and running around in a cape? Placing yourself above the law, overriding the police protocols and standards? Stuff and nonsense. Dangerous nonsense.

A blip at her desk took her away from her musings. A simple message hovered on the screen, suspended in all its superiority.

"Need the bike. And the camera."

Bruce, you thoroughly infuriating man.


	19. Chapter 19: Bats

a/n: I really should be reading my course texts. xD But oh well. Not too sure how the tone is working out in this one, but there ya go. Hope y'alls likes!

**Chapter 19  
**

When Terry first came to, it was dark, and the darkness was spinning. His back felt as if it had been dragged along a highway for a good mile or so, and he wasn't entirely sure that wasn't the case. It wasn't long before he passed out again, the hollow sound of voices muffling through the walls.

The next time he came to, the darkness had stopped spinning somewhat, and he could make out a sliver of grey light somewhere in the distance. The bottom of a door, he supposed. He felt behind him the best he could, only to find that his hands were weighed down with fetters. An experimental shift of his legs told him that his ankles were similarly bound. It was starting to seem like a very bad movie. He tried to focus on the voices beyond the wall, thanking small mercies for the cell he was in not being an Iso. He heard hoots of laughter, guttural mumblings and the occasional crash of furniture. Or crates. Or bodies. The giggling brought him back to how he had ended up in that state. He'd been rescuing two girls. Well, McGinnis, he thought he'd been rescuing two girls, but like some rank amateur had ended up in a trap.

Very schway.

The voices grew ever so faintly closer, and Terry strained forward in an attempt to hear.

"C'mon man, let the good times roll!"

"Come off it, Ghoul, Boss said he wasn't to be touched." Sounds of grumbling and grousing followed.

"I honestly don't think he's all that, do you, Dee Dee?"

"Me neither, Dee Dee, and why does he keep coming up?"

"It's because of that old guy Wayne, you mutts." J-man. Terry winced. At least he knew the gangs really were consolidating their numbers now. Someone began giggling, the rise and fall of it repeating itself unnaturally. The name dropped came back to him like a boomerang. Wayne. There was more to this, then. He hoped that whatever it was, he'd get out in time to warn Bruce. He remembered finding Bruce sprawled on the cave floor, laughing in that constipated wheezing as he gasped for breath, scrabbling weakly at the floor for purchase, face locked in a rictus of grinning agony. Not something he'd want to see again in his lifetime.

"You think you're all that, J-man, just so you know, we worked for the real Mister. J"

"Sure, Chucko," that sounded like Scab, the low growl filtering through the door, "And who beat him? Batman."

"You think Batman's gonna come after No Fun Boy?"

"Like he'll be able to find him!" J-man announced, glee evident in his voice. The group burst out into a fit of giggles, someone banging heavily on the door as they passed. The metal clangs resounded past Terry's ears in the small space, and when the echoes had stopped, so had the voices.

It'd be a long haul, he figured. He tried not to think about the chill that was beginning to descend on the room, or the lactic acid building in his arms as they were kept locked behind him. Absently, he wondered if the fact that he was at least sitting down was something to be glad about.

* * *

Bruce wanted to smash something.

As it was, he was sitting very calmly, if with a strong stubbornness set in his frame without which he probably would be smashing something, or at least biting verbally into the officer currently sitting across the table from him. He had gone up to the Gotham Central Police Station, not just to see Barbara but to offer his assurances to Mary McGinnis who had rushed down to the station as soon as she had been informed. Being the last person apart from Dana who had seen Terry, the officers on the case had deemed it pertinent to, as they put it, 'ask him a few questions'. Who wouldn't want to ask questions? He wanted to ask questions, he wanted to root out the answers that would bring him to Terry's assailants. This was a complete waste of time.

"Miss Tan informed us that Terry was in the area due to an errand you had sent him on. Can you confirm this?"

"Yes."

"Could you let us know what this errand was?"

"Taking pictures of the historical areas of Gotham."

"That was all?"

"Yes." Bruce grit his teeth and stared stonily at the cop. His partner who had been leaning against the wall pushed off it in one smooth motion and approached the table.

"So he's your errand boy, eh?" he said, silky voice rubbing like sandpaper across Bruce's mind.

"Of a nature."

"Ooh, of what nature, I'm wondering." The audacity.

"What are you insinuating?" Bruce asked, levelling one of his glares at him. Silly boy, trying to play at bad cop, and reading too much into tabloid speculations. His life as a public figure had meant all sort of scrutiny when it came to those with whom he developed a closer association. He was usually able to take it in stride, even encourage it at times. This was not one of those times. He gripped his cane harder to prevent himself from throwing the table to the floor.

"What we're just needing to know is the nature of your relationship with Mr. McGinnis." His partner quickly said, sending the other cop a warning glance.

"Professional. He is my personal assistant. I took him on after the unfortunate death of his father."

"Yeah, we heard about that," the log decided to speak again, "seems like bad luck runs in the family, huh. Bad luck to do with your company, or you."

This time Bruce did get up, baring his teeth. "I believe you've asked enough questions." He made for the door, only to have Barbara Gordon open it before he got there. He slated a look at her. "You may want to keep your men in check, Commissioner," he muttered with vitriol before stalking out. She reached out a hand to grab his arm and he twisted in her grasp, but stalled.

"We just need to know if there's anyone who might want to do you harm," she said. He looked at her, blue eyes a boiling sea. Then the sea calmed for a moment even as he gripped the cane harder. The girl at a nearby console thought he looked fearsome. He thought he looked pathetic.

"Do you really need an answer to that, Barbara?" her grasp slackened and he slipped quietly out of it, and walked down the corridor, past a distraught Dana, past a Mary McGinnis with worry etched across her face in the only way a mother's could.

"They'll do all they can, Mrs. McGinnis," he said, inwardly knowing in his infirm heart that he would do the same. More. He got into the car and drove back to the manor, camera tucked in his pocket, slipped to him by Barbara as they passed at the door. The motorcycle would be delivered later, he was sure. He thought about the enemies and possible enemies he had acquired, encountered, defeated and been utterly beat by over the years. So even Barbara thought someone was trying to get at him through Terry. The question was, which him? Bruce Wayne? Batman? Who was this person, how much did they know? And once the police got involved, not that they weren't, unless Barbara took the case upon herself, more questions would be asked. No, Barbara would do this, if not for him, for the boy. The boy? A voice in his head laughed mockingly as the skies overhead rumbled a disgusted purple at him, as if condemning his every decision since the day he had first set his eyes on the expanse of the cave. He tasted bile in his mouth, and let the bitterness flow through him. No. He would find him, he would be alive, and if one hair on his head was hurt ... he would sick sweet rage on those responsible.

Ace was at the gate, waiting for him as he drew up to it. Diana was at the door.

"I heard," she said. "You might want to check the news too." Bruce spat into the grass in response. Media, that was the last thing they needed. He wouldn't even be surprised if the tip off came from the poorly disguised gorilla that was the officer in the room.

"We have work to do," he said as he stepped into the main hall. It was dark, night was approaching fast, but through that darkness the last blaze of the sunset sliced through the living room windows. His eyes were drawn to the play of colours across the floor, and felt something in his gut that was mingled with so much poison. It was tiny, like a spark, ascending from an ashy expanse. A tingle of desperation. A tinge of hope. He would not fail Terry. He descended the stairs to the cave, flanked by Diana and Ace. A small room at one end of the cave opened up as he pressed a button on the console, and he went towards it, rolls of film in his hand. The red light seemed almost alive as he worked within the darkroom, and a good few hours later he emerged, having pegged up the photos to dry.

"I contacted some of the League," Diana said as soon as she saw him. He jerked his head up to look from her to the screen. Diana placed a hand on her hip in ready annoyance at his own. "Don't give me that look, Bruce." He bowed his head in rare assent, moving closer to the computer.

"I would have preferred to request assistance after assessing the situation."

"Assessing the situation? Your protégé, and Gotham's active guardian, a part-time member of the Justice League, is missing, as a civilian." Her voice had remained steady through this, the calmness being somewhat unnerving in its granting Diana intense precision in enunciating each word, which she did to great effect. "Don't tell me this isn't important enough." She allowed herself a small pause, and Bruce readied himself for an onslaught of berating from the Amazonian. Instead, she smiled.

"Anyway," she said, tossing her hair back, "I called up old hat. Ones you'd be able to stand working with. For a while. Some were even in town."

At that point a scarlet blur shot past them.

Bruce's only suitable reaction was giving her a look that said, 'You didn't.'

* * *

It was not strictly true that Bruce Wayne did not come into contact with League members long after hanging up the non-cape cowl. The members that came after his retirement he did not know. The members that came before that he didn't know beyond their powers, abilities, weaknesses and histories, usually stayed away from him, and after his increasing absence in the Watchtower, began treating him almost like the mythic spectre he was to most of humanity. The members that did regularly attempt to interact with him, or that he allowed for a while to interact with him, became increasingly restricted to the founding members of the League. Within this core existed a veritable irritant that liked to remind them that he was their conscience. He didn't do this explicitly, lording it over them like a bragging child. No, he just tested and tried their patience daily, then wiped his infractions away with a mocha, a smile, and very quick getaways. Somehow it worked.

Said irritant's daytime job brought him with rather frequent contact with Gotham, and so had never failed to appear on Bruce Wayne's increasingly hostile doorstep over the past few decades on the occasions that he was in town. Said irritant was Wally West, and he was currently buzzing between the computer screen in the Batcave and the evidence table at an increasingly high speed.

"West, did age not slow you down?"

"Can't say it has Bats. Made me hungrier though. Say, you got any food around here?" The blur shot up the staircase and came back again five seconds later with a box of fried chicken Terry had left the night before.

"So, what've we got so far, Bats?"

Bruce wanted to mutter 'nothing' in a manner which conveyed his increasing ire with as little effort as possible. The easy manner in which the Flash still leaned against the back of his chair, as he was doing now, immediately caused him to long for the usual silence that surrounded him when was in the cave. The Flash's manner of speech served to fuel his frustration. In the earlier years of Wally West's career he had written it off as naive immaturity. Thirty five years later and a sizeable amount of world and off-world crises thrown into the mix, he realised now that the hyperactive, patented happy-go-luckiness that was, indeed, the Flash, was indeed, the Flash. Bruce had accepted that his aggravation was an instinctual response. Bruce valued instinct. At this point, however, the urge to glare Wally's exuberance into contriteness seemed softened, buffeted by what the man had said. Rather, what he had called him.

"Bats?"

Said in such a casual way, but of course everyone was the Flash's friend, even his villains. 'Bats'. Names were strange things. They defined not only the person, but the relation of the person to the speaker. The speaker defined the relationship, did they not? The speaker identified the person. No one in their right minds would think that the balding, feeble man barely holding his weight up in that grey throne could in anyway be a 'Batman', that he was still capable of it. Not even him. Old Man was the much favoured moniker that his own psyche had chosen. Certainly not 'Bruce', which would only be heard in the voice of his Mother, coloured with tinges of previous... loves, shot through with the bitter aftertaste of iron and blood. No, they never did quite get it right, not Shriek or Powers. Even Terry had believed he addressed himself as 'Batman' internally. Batman was a spectre which had haunted him since he was eight. Batman was the shadowy figure he became. Then there was Bats. Cheekiness with affection, of which Wally West mostly was. In that, a reminder of himself. Funny, how that worked. He would've thanked Wally there and then. He settled instead for a glower as some sauce threatened to drip onto his shoulder.


	20. Chapter 20: Mrs McGinnis

a/n: This entire chapter has been buoyed by conversations and ideas batted about by SilverKnight, and Kyer's pretty much convinced me to try and keep Flash in as much as I can, so thanks guys, and everyone else for reading and reviewing. At the same time, I've been reading 'Another Country' by James Baldwin, which may or may not be colouring my descriptions. Righto. Onward.

**Chapter 20:**

"The photographs don't look particularly promising at the moment. But time will tell," Bruce said, "They'll be ready soon. What I do need is a look at the area." He typed up the coordinates and they blipped across the scene.

"M'on it." said Flash, then stretched slightly. "Be right back then. Mind if I borrow this?" He whizzed off, leaving the air cooler as it swirled around them in his wake. Bruce tapped his fingers together as they waited for him to return. It wasn't long.

"I took a few pictures," Flash said as he whizzed into view a few minutes later. "Thought you'd want a better look at the writing on the wall, as it were." He slipped the card from the camera, this time digital, and loaded the images into the computer, where they were blown up on screen. The macro lens had picked up the miniscule charred indentations in the concrete, something even the current satellite technology would be unable to. And this was faster, besides. "And I got this." He held up a thin strand of hair, its colour indiscernible in the darkness of the cave. "I'll check it out for you," he said, before zooming off to the side equipment.

"Strange," Diana said as she looked at the blown up images on the screen. "The scorch pattern seems so..."

"Even?" Bruce asked.

"Yes." They had seen the same thing then. It wasn't some sort of accurate flamethrower that had caused the damage. And the writing itself was too crude for any sort of laser, and even then, hand held, some areas down each stroke would have been more charred than others. The sharp blackness pooled together where the lines met, but apart from that seemed almost slapped on by an even brand. Like some sort of... rope.

"Hey guys," Flash's voice came over from the side of them, "This follicle's a phony. Synthetic. Really strange shade of ginger too."

Bruce's heart jolted at that moment, feeling the phantom pain of ten thousand volts of electricity coursing through him. It couldn't be. Sensing the change in his demeanour, Diana laid a hand on his arm. The contact grounded him, and he was grateful. He looked at her, watching her expression shift to worry.

"What's wrong?"

"I think the future just happened," Bruce replied. A future which was terrible; drawn from nightmares that ended in cold shivers and the bile which forced its way up a strangled throat. _J'onn_, he all but screamed in his mind. The flutter of the Martian's presence in his mind prompted him to continue. _I assume Diana called you too._

_Yes, _J'onn answered him. _I do not bear good news._ Not that he had expected J'onn to locate Terry so easily. They had never met, for one. For another, whatever shielding technology their unknown foe was using would be surely in place to stop any direct search, telepathic or otherwise. If the Joker had been able to piece together crude technology from whatever he had salvaged from Luthor's old warehouse to prevent them finding Timothy all those years ago, this was surely effortless. It wasn't a good thought. History was bunk, according to that fictional World Controller from Huxley's novel. Bruce didn't suppose Huxley considered that sometimes, the future was history, and that history always came back in its endless circle to crush you down again.

_Call if you find something_. Find something. _By comlink_. He wasn't sure if he would be able to stand more in his mind crowding over with falling dominoes.

_I understand, _ the voice echoed again, before he was left only with his thoughts once more. They seeped past his skull and through the rest of his bones, chilling him. He ignored the sensation in favour of retrieving the developed photos from the darkroom, borrowing warmth from Ace, who had chosen at that moment to pace beside him.

* * *

Gotham's skyline reared up with cragged teeth, ready to swallow anyone who dared to enter its threshold. Lights illuminated from the bottom, crackling with the life of the untameable night in which delinquents roamed and ruled. The piddling respectability that it maintained during the day was torn asunder as the sun left each night, speeding away so as to distance itself from the notion that it wanted to bestow on the city any form of goodwill. The passing visitor would not have felt this; the lights emanating sinister flares, and the shadows which followed close behind with a hunger insatiable for the corruption that clung to the city's gums like plaque which could never be scrubbed away.

"Delightful," came the smooth-coarse voice from behind an ornately carved onyx desk. Expensive. Cold. Brutal in its refinement, like the owner who stood behind it. Red sardonyx bands ran along its sides and seemed to glow from the light of the city. Such light seemed to accentuate the darkness around his figure rather than eliminate it. "Is everything in order?"

"Terry McGinnis has been captured."

"Amazing. I'll be forthright with you, Jimmy. I didn't think equipping those children would prove very fruitful."

"Those in particular assured me that they had dealt with him before, that they knew how he worked." Jimmy Lin's self-satisfied smirk could not help but stretch his face into a lopsided crease. "And we had a contingent hold more than their own against Batman a few days ago."

"Oh, I don't think Batman will be much of a problem anymore," hummed the man.

"You know the best, wise one."

"Very good, Jimmy-boy," the man murmured. For despite the dank heat that seemed to cling in the air around him, and the forbidding posture he maintained in the gloom, he was a man. To Jimmy, he was a god on earth, Guan Gong sent to bless and command as he pleased. This was not strictly untrue either. Jimmy stepped back respectfully as he arose, clad strangely in a well cut business suit. Strange, because he wore a fearsome mask, a garish red with piercing, painted eyes set in. Pointed streaks of black like barbed wire etched out a frowning forehead and severe eyebrows, others forming fierce lines that led to a drawn beard around the mouth, white like death. Man or not, his intent was singular, and it was the singularity which made his being fearsome. Break Gotham. Claim Gotham. Remake Gotham, in his own image. Play the game.

Jimmy Lin's voice came again, off to the side of him.

"The middle of the seventh month draws near, Guan Gong," said Jimmy.

"Of course. And I am hungering this year. Greatly so."

A wave of his hand dismissed Lin as he turned towards the windows again to look at the city that was soon to become his own.

* * *

"You guys see that?" the Flash asked as he peered closer at the photograph in his hands. He held it out. Diana took it from him and placed it on the scanner. An enlarged version soon filled the screen. "That smeary thing just off the wall there," Flash said as he pointed at it, and Diana squinted in concentration.

"Could just be graffiti," she said. The mixture of doubt and hope in her tone washed over Bruce as he too stared intently at the mix of lines on the screen.

"Could be," he said, "Flash, see if you can find any other pictures which show the same thing."

"I'll do better than that," came Wally's voice as he blurred out of view. He disappeared for a few seconds before returning, a short stack of photos clasped firmly in his hands. "This, and this, and this," he said, placing them on the console edge, "and here, and this, and these." The rest he plopped into Diana's hands. "Oh," he said as he zoomed round the other side of Bruce's chair, "And I went to check it out. Either the cleaners in this city are really doing their job, or that thing's not meant to be seen. Not a glimpse of it anywhere." Wally folded his arms and grinned. "Tell me I'm good."

"No, I don't suppose you're head of your department for nothing," Bruce muttered absently as he selected a photograph which had a black dot on a wall in clear view. He cut off Flash's intended rebuttal, continuing. "They aren't just on one wall. They seem to be all over the compound," he said as he slotted it under the scanner.

"Computer: enlarge, refine. Vector," he commanded. The lines of the ovoid symbol separated from the main image till only it remained on screen.

"Freaky," said Flash, withdrawing the hand he had raised as a frowning face could be discerned.

"It's a mask," Diana half exclaimed to herself. The design was evidently some sort of character type. "But not Grecian... Asian."

"Chinese," Bruce clarified, confirming aloud what Diana knew. She sighed. It would have been a small victory. It should have. Now in only served to heighten the urgency in locating Terry. The young man who was Bruce's boy. His boy. How easy it was to create that connection in her mind between the two of them. How simply evident it was in the eyes of the man who now stared into harshly painted ones.

"Not just any mask." Bruce frowned. "Guan Yu," he murmured, voice blackening. His conversation with Terry earlier in the week came back to him. His absence resounded all the more clearly.

"Who?" Wally asked.

"Ancient Chinese warlord. Folklore."

"So, what, someone's brought him back? Trying to? Cult group?" Wally scratched at his shoulder as he peered at the pattern of the face.

"So it might seem. Easy to prey on the superstitions of corrupt businessmen. Easy to rally behind a powerful name." Cultural consciousness. What hold was Huang exercising beyond these shores?

"What would an Eastern god be doing in Gotham?" Diana wondered.

"What would an Eastern god be doing crossing you?" Wally's question tumbled after. What indeed.

"Making a mistake," Bruce answered, feeling his blood race once again, where for the past few hours it had seemed frozen, congealing in his very veins. "I'm calling J'onn." He reached for one of the keys in front of him, but before his fingers touched his surface, an alert lit up the screen. Sounds of Ace's barking could be heard from the living room. "Someone's at the door."

"But it's nearly one in the morning!" Wally said.

"I'll call J'onn. You should answer," said Diana. Bruce clicked on the alert as he stood up, switching to a camera view of the gate. He hoped it was Barbara. No such luck. A very enraged red head floated up into view.

'Come out and face me, you coward of a man! You think you can hide up there away from everything!' the voice of Mary McGinnis fizzled through on the screen. The fisheye camera exaggerated the vehemence radiating through her face and posture.

"Whoa. Who's the lady?" asked Flash.

"The mother," Bruce said as he walked to the elevator. The faster he got to the door the better. "Wally, change."

He keyed the gate to open and opened the main door, watching as Mary stalked her way up the stony pathway, face as hard set as the ground she stepped on. Bruce thought briefly of all the red heads of the opposite gender that he had encountered in his life. The quick conclusion arrived that it was usually not a good thing to commit an infraction by them, perceived or otherwise. From maces, to long seated grudges, to dressing up as Death and unleashing vengeance on one's enemies... vaguely he wondered as well if the company of Wally West had unlocked the unfortunate sense of humour that had begun to bubble up inside him.

"Mrs McGinnis," he greeted, barely preventing his lips from twitching.

"Oh don't you 'Mrs McGinnis' me," she hollered as she pushed past him into the hall, all the fury of a woman rolling off her. "My son is out there, because of you, and all you can do, is, is stay holed up here..." Shayera Hol would be proud. Bruce suspected so would Diana, who he now sensed had appeared round the corner. "Entertaining yourself with call girls!" There was a silence which punctuated the air like a shining thumb tack on crumbling plaster. The plaster cracked. Diana, dressed at that moment in rather modest slacks and a blouse, bristled.

"Excuse me?" Diana said, voice preparing itself to rise. Bruce held up his hand to stall her.

"You heard me," Mary ploughed on, "They're tearing my son up on the feeds. They're pointing at you." She emphasised this with a jab of the finger at Bruce's chest, "As the cause." She raged on. "Do you know," she said, "how hard my Matty took it when they took Warren?" her eyes had clouded over at the mention of her late husband's name, but it was quickly replaced with a dangerous glint that caused Wally to freeze mid step, having just walked into the hallway. "Jokerz, it's always Jokerz, isn't it? Well? What was it? What dirty work had you been getting my son to do? Easy wasn't it? He had a record and everything. What's the word for it?" she paused here, almost cruelly, before taking another breath. "Expendable." Bruce watched her, still silent and unmoving. "I know," she started again, calmer, "about company muscling. And blackmail. And all that. But why did you have to drag my son into it? Is your company jinxed, or something? Or is it just my family? Huh?"

"Mrs McGinnis," Bruce murmured, lifting his hands in placation. It seemed to have the wrong effect. She drew herself up further and advanced on him.

"No. And you. You probably don't care. You thought taking in a charity case might be good for your publicity. But you'll forget about him now, you and your like all cosy up here on Mount Olympus. No. Everyone's just your pawn. You don't care. You've never been married, never had to worry about where your next meal came from, never had to do a thing for yourself in all your padded, rich existence." Diana and Wally stood stock still a little distance away, slightly awed by the wrath of the woman before them. "I've just had to put Matt to bed. I couldn't tear him away from the television. I've had enough of people speculating about the misfortune of my family. I've had enough of that speculation surrounding all you power mads sitting on high. He wants his brother back, Matt. He's been silent the whole evening."

She was only a few inches from Bruce now, staring up at him with a proud chin and squared shoulders. "Do you know Matt? He likes to talk. He's a happy boy. Even after Warren's death, Terry got him going again. I suppose I have you to thank for that. I appreciate that you gave Terry a job then. But now? I don't know." Her accent broadened with her next words, emotion bringing her back to her earlier upbringing. "Seems like all the name Wayne has given my family is total, unadulterated, _shit_." Spittle flew from her mouth. She began raising her arms as her voice rose in pitch. "Matt wants his brother back," she said, "and I want my son." Bruce reached towards her in a belated effort to calm her down, but she avoided his arms and charged a fist towards him with all the might of a mother scorned. It connected with his jaw, and time slowed as he staggered back.

"Whoa, lady, you have got to calm down," Wally said as he ran towards Bruce to shield him from the enraged woman. Mary McGinnis stood there, seeming to tower over them. Running a hand along his jaw, Bruce tried to hide the smirk that had come unbidden to his face. Woman had some spunk. The fire that shot from her mouth had ignited something old and simmering within himself. The blood that had been racing minutes before seemed to surge all the more. It wasn't adrenaline, nothing so cheap. He felt the night again, not a swallowing blackness, but a cudgel meant just for him to wield.

Then Mary seemed to deflate slightly, and she waved her hand absently at the air. She suddenly looked very tired. "I'm sorry- I didn't mean," she began. Bruce took the hand in his own, firm grasp, and shook it.

"I understand," he said, and the glint in his eyes finding resonance in her own. "Please. Meet Mr. West, Head of Forensics in Central City."

Wally held out his hand, perturbed and amused by the turn in events, never mind that running up whirlwinds was usually his area of expertise. "Nice to meet you, Mrs McGinnis. Would you like some coffee? I whip up an awesome mocha." He mouthed to Diana 'What was _that_ about?' as she approached them. Mary McGinnis turned to her with slight embarrassment colouring her ears and eyebrows.

"Diana of Themyscira," she said, smiling.

"The ambassador?" Mary asked, still dazed after her outburst. She shook herself, then blurted out, "Wonder Woman?" Pink rose to her cheeks. "Oh, I'm really sorry, for, well," she smiled now, shrugging in a manner which made her seem in an instant like a young girl, "for calling you a tart." And brash. Bruce once again resisted the urge to smirk. He would have to blame proximity with West for corrupting him, and the situation which prevented him from covering it up with a scowl as he often did. "My friends and I totally idolised you back in high school and college," Mary continued.

"I'm... flattered," Diana said, shaking her hand. Bruce cleared his throat.

"I think that coffee is very much in order now," he said, then ushered them to the living room.


	21. Chapter 21: The Cards are Dealt

a/n: Many thanks to the reviews and adding to alert lists of various people! Also, following Kyer's review I've gone back and tweaked the last chapter, just to be sure of the amount of time Wally needs with the camera and running back and forth, so this is an fyi, heh. I have the strangest feeling I'll be wanting to shoot myself in the foot for introducing the next character, but we'll see.

**Chapter 21:**

"Small mercies, it's the weekend. At least I'll be able to be with Matt for a while," Mary said, hands clasped over the still warm mug of coffee in her hands. She looked over at the austere figure of Bruce Wayne. It had always seemed strange, this man who had only existed on television and in newspapers, appearing every now and then in the flesh. Shaking Warren's hand during one of the Christmas parties, coming into her own home to hire her son. Her now missing son. She would have imagined an aging bachelor like himself, with the history that he had, to be constantly surrounding himself with the upper echelon of society, with their gaiety and splendour that was never quite real to Mary. Living up there like the new, shining gods of their time. Bruce Wayne now sat a little way across from her, seated in an armchair, great big crags of hands clasped together in his lap, and a great hound lying across his feet. He looked like he should have been in a portrait. He was certainly still enough to seem so, sitting there with the slight incline of his head that somehow gave his gentlemanly being a sense of cautious attentiveness.

She was amazed, and perhaps a bit touched, at the lengths to which her son's employer had gone to in engaging help in his search. Sure, Wallace West, the forensics head at the famed department in Central City had happened to be in town, but Diana, Princess of Themyscira? Diplomat and all time world super-heroine? If anything, the influence that Bruce Wayne wielded among his connections was firmly established in Mary McGinnis' mind. The television had been kept on at a low volume in the background, kept at the news feed in case any new developments turned up. Mr. West had insisted on preparing coffee for them all as they had waited, and Mary was oddly grateful. The big house seemed to render everything into cardboard stands and dwarfed any attempts at warmth despite the huge lamps that glowed through the living room. The coffee just seemed to ground everything.

She looked up from her mug again to see the dog growling softly at the television screen to her left. The other three noticed as well, Mr. West quickly bringing up the volume.

"It seems that the series of unfortunate events that has befallen the McGinnis family, of which the late Warren McGinnis was its first victim, has been passed on to his son, " the blue moniker buzzed, "Viewers may recall the tragedy barely two years ago where Warren McGinnis, then employee under Wayne-Powers, had been killed in what seemed like a brutal attack from a Jokerz gang, later suspected to be a ploy by then CEO Derek Powers, an action never confirmed by the police, to silence what he knew of a deadly viral mutagen that was being developed, the same which later claimed Derek Powers himself, turning him into the currently missing villain better known as Blight."

"Oh please," Mary muttered under her breath. So the stations had decided to drag up the family's colourful history as well. Anything to milk a good story.

"Now his son, Terry McGinnis, an employee of Bruce Wayne, current CEO of the renamed Wayne Enterprises and its founder, has been captured by what seems like another Jokerz gang. It seems like the Joker related problems of Bruce Wayne, who had been a target for what seemed like the original Joker just last year, has yet to lift. No word has yet been received about the youth's whereabouts, who had become the personal aide of the aging business mogul since, as far as we know, the untimely demise of his father."

Bruce's clasped hands had disentangled themselves at this point. One unconsciously gripped the arm rest, while the other had reached for his cane, which he used to lean forward at the screen.

"You know, Janet," the male avatar said to his female counterpart, "one has to wonder if all this bad luck is not stemming from the name of Wayne itself. Seems to me that both McGinnises have been caught in the middle troubles related either to the company or to the man himself."

"Perhaps in this case, both," 'Janet' offered in bright complicity.

"Quite right, Janet. Word is, our revered business mogul has been trying to make more than a comeback, buying over shadow corporations. Perhaps this new muscling is beginning to step on some people's toes."

"Or perhaps it is Mister Wayne who has something to cover up, this time."

At this, all other words were drowned out of Bruce's ears as he stared at the box, almost willing it to melt if he could. "Vermin," he muttered vehemently. "I should sue them for slander."

"You know the press will be expecting some sort of contact with them to clear things up," Diana said, casting worried eyes between Mary and Bruce.

"The press and its employees are a pack of rats ready to disseminate a plague," Bruce said, getting up and stalking to the huge windows that overlooked the front garden slope.

"Yeah..." said Wally, running a hand over his hair, "and they'll probably be here by sun up."

Bruce turned his face, half obscured in shadow by the curtains from where he stood, looking at the television screen again. "They'll be after the McGinnis household as well." His face slackened as his glance shifted to Mary McGinnis, sitting there, suddenly looking very frail and young to him. Another generation of grief on his head, and he'd thought he was done with it. He sighed, and focused on her, eyes and voice sincere. "I'm very sorry, Mrs. McGinnis," he said. "I will do everything in my power," here he seemed to pause, a certain distaste with the word crossing his lips, "to right this." He looked out. "And I will ensure that you have all the privacy you need, away from the media, even if the police do not." Another call to Barbara, another favour asked. And knowing her, he supposed she tallied the numbers up somewhere.

"Mrs. McGinnis," he said, turning away from the windows, better composed than when he had all but run to them a few moments before, "allow me to send you home. It is getting late."

"Oh no, I couldn't possibly. I was just going to call a taxi-" she began, looking more tired and fragile in her remonstrations. The original verve with which she had boldly and rather soundly told off Bruce seemed to be dwindling by the second. Anyone could have seen that what she needed the most at that point in time was rest.

"I insist," said Bruce, in a voice gentle that brooked no argument.

* * *

On reaching the apartment, a flickering glow could be seen from the door. On switching on the light, they found the living room television on, and a shock of dark hair peeping out over the edge of the couch.

"Oh, Matt," said Mary as she rushed towards her younger son.

"Mom?" he uttered, sleep caking his speech, "I was just watching the news again. Couldn't... sleep." He paused before the last word as he came to full awareness, realising that they were not alone. Bruce stood a little distance away from the couch, just at the edge of the room, staring at him unblinkingly.

"Hullo, Mr. Wayne," he greeted, face as serious as the man he now faced.

"Hello, Matthew," Bruce replied. There was something odd in the gravity of the boy's face; something too familiar that tugged at his own throat. The fall of the hair over the eyes, though brown, seemed so much like Terry's when he had first confronted him about the truth concerning his father's murder. The itch behind them to do something, anything, to avoid the sense that the situation was hopeless; you were helpless; that anything you did was insignificant, and so were you, burned brighter in the young face. Though once again, the eyes were brown, this haunting look seemed to echo another boy whose hair fell over his eyes, decades prior, and Bruce Wayne: balding, hair white, saw himself again in that moment.

"You'll get them, right, Mr. Wayne?" Matthew said, rising from his seat to walk over to the still man, looking up at him with an almost painful earnest. "You'll find my brother?"

"I'll do everything I can."

"You'll find my brother?"

"Yes. I'll find your brother," Bruce said, not having moved from where he stood. "I promise."

"And those who did this?"

Bruce had knelt down in front of the face at once so unfamiliar and recognisable. He knew that look. _Are you happy now, Waller?_ He thought in his head. Though perhaps the curse was his fault, ran through his blood. So was the steel in the boy's voice despite his tremulous words, a sort of hollowing which could cow a two bit thug, an armed man, in a dark alley as he ran for his life to escape the unflinching gaze of a wronged child. And those who did this? Who turned that child from innocence into brutal, suffering anger? Bruce considered this in the quiet of the room, still save the breeze that floated about them both, rustling the curtains softly as it went.

"They'll pay," said Bruce. Matt squared his shoulders, straightening his back as Bruce stood up.

"Oh yeah, they will," he muttered. An instant later he yawned and seemed transferred back to the whining little brat Terry sometimes complained fondly about, but not before that look of understanding passed between them. The boy didn't know it, or perhaps he did, that for all his short life, he had been touched by Gotham's darkness, and he was a child of the Bat. And the Bat protected his own.

Wally was waiting inside the car, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel. Bruce got in, and the door clicked shut behind them. "Done as you asked," Wally said, leaning further back into the seat even as he switched the ignition on. The engine whirred into life and they began cruising down the city. "A tracker on each pair of shoes, and bugs through the house, just in case."

"I know," Bruce replied evenly, his eyes remaining on the street in front of them as they passed.

"What, you could see me?" Flash's incredulity made the tenor of his voice jump as he swerved off the main road and onto the highway.

"No," Bruce said, and couldn't help the smugness that entered his next few words, "There was a breeze in the room." He looked over at Wally with an arched eyebrow. "A rather strong breeze," he added by way of explanation, "and no windows open."

"Can't get anything past you, Bats," Wally said, one hand on the wheel and the other stretched out behind him, as they rolled up the hill that led to Wayne Manor. The silence through the remainder of their journey was not a contemplative one. The sun would be rising soon, but that did not spell any form of rest before it. Diana was right. They were expecting a press release, now that it had got to the media's attention.

* * *

"Mr. Wayne, are your rival dealings the cause of this?" "Mr. Wayne, what of the safety of the rest of your company's employees?" "Have you heard any demands yet?" "Commissioner, is the Joker back in business?" "Mr. Wayne, why do you think Terrance McGinnis is being targeted?" "Reports of Wonder Woman has been sighted, has the Justice League taken an interest in the case?" "Or hey, is it just personal?" The stream of questions were unending, a verbal battering onslaught from reporters. Bright zings and camera flashes bounced off the metal exterior of Wayne Enterprises' business headquarters in the central district. Barbara had decided to show up, following them after returning the motorcycle, Batsuit within its hidden compartment. The usual assurances were given to the public. Bruce Wayne pledged his resources to the recovery of Terry, Commissioner Gordon denied to comment on any future leads, but stated all the same that the police were doing everything in their power. It was a horrific farce. Standing there, sweating, providing fodder for what was ultimately a crude form of entertainment. Pursuit of truth, indeed, Bruce thought, wishing to spit into the microphone instead of the calmness he chose to exude instead.

"One last question." Bruce had just been about to come down from the stand when the voice stopped him. He turned, squinting in the sunlight at a bespectacled man, greying at the temples, and dressed in a light blue suit not quite so modern in cut as those surrounding him. He nodded at him to continue.

"You say you will do everything in your power. What if you do not succeed?"

"Mr. Kent, you've been around long enough to know that is not an option, in my case," Bruce spoke into the microphone before stepping down from the podium, ignoring cries from others of 'Is that hubris?' and 'What makes you so sure this time?'. He got into the car, and rolled the opaque windows up. No one noticed the quick figure that slipped in beside him from the other side.

"I thought you were in deep space," Bruce said.

"No, not this time, old friend," said the man beside him. Well, yes, seeing as the 'last time' almost all of the core had been called to some mission on the outer side of the galaxy, the League having extended their attentions beyond earth even more following Darkseid's attack and disappearance. Even the Flash had been called away. Only Diana and J'onn had been on earth. And what a riot that had been, Bruce mused. Hubris, the callow twit of a reporter had said. Had that prevented him from contacting Diana so soon after hanging up on her? But no. No metas within. They had wanted- he, he had wanted it quiet. Gotham spooked easily back then. J'onn had tried, but his telepathic abilities could only go so far against Cadmus acquired shielding technology fallen into the hands of a man bent on carrying out his sick joke.

What was stopping Gotham from recoiling just as quickly now? Ripping out the underworld's secrets was a more delicate affair than simply ramming them into walls as his companion beside him was wont to do. And if they were being banded together, woven into some tight mesh, the only way was to seek the master of those strings directly, a player who till now had been silent. Bruce turned his thoughts elsewhere for the moment, and sniffed the air.

"What have you been putting in your hair, Clark?"

"Clark Kent has to age somewhat, y'know, even with all this new fangled health prolonging technology," the old boy scout replied, some of his Kansas childhood entering his voice. "And I think my cellular system's rejuvenating. Starro apparently didn't like the sun more than was necessary." He even sounded younger. This caused Bruce to shift in his seat, aware all the more that he was the most feeble among them. Even Wally, who at this moment had assigned himself to the driver's seat, looked impossibly spry for a man his age, again, modern medicine notwithstanding. It grated, also because their extended company and deference to him made him forget at times, momentarily, that he was not the man he once was.

"Aww, ain't it great that we're all together again? Now all we need is Shayera and-"

"Shut up, Wally."

"Got iiit."

"Same old, same old," said Clark, looking out the window as the scenery changed from metal and cement to trees and dirt. Bruce wondered if it was worth his energy taking offence at the unintended connotation.

* * *

They had just reached the hallway when Clark paused mid step. "Something wrong?" queried Bruce as they stepped into the hall.

"Alert in the cave." They were there in an instant, Bruce supported by Clark and Diana just in front of it. At the same time the house phone went shrilly off.

"Someone's patching themselves through," she said, the blipping on the screen fizzing into a voice which cleared its throat before beginning. The ringing in the rooms above them abruptly stopped. Bruce's fingers were already in a frenzy across the keyboard.

"Trying to trace this line, friend? I don't think so," said the voice, almost amused.

"I'm not your friend."

"No, I suppose not," drawled the person. "You wish you were though," he mocked, "After all, I have something you care rather dearly about." Scuffling could be heard behind him, the sound of a chair knocked over, something dragged over carpet.

"Let go of me, you slime," Terry's voice came up clearly over the speakers, the sound hollow, away from the microphone. He was silenced by what sounded like a well placed heel to his mouth. Bruce reared up, teeth bared at the screen.

"The boy is relatively unharmed, I'll have you know," came the voice again, a soothing parody of placation. "I can't promise that indefinitely."

"What do you want?" Bruce grit out.

"Frankly, I want you to burn, but before that, I'd like to see you humbled." The man paused for a moment, and Bruce held up his hand to the other three, to silence them just in case. "I'm taking Gotham from you. Taking this boy was just a trickle of a metaphor. A precursor, if you will."

"I don't care who think you are," Bruce began, "I will find-" his words were cut off, interrupted by the voice which snapped impatiently, before relaxing once again.

"I don't really care who you think you are either. Bruce. Or Batman. Or just an old perverted wastrel," the voice sounded out in tones of jagged granite, "I make no demands. I have no need to make demands. I'm just giving you... notice. So that when the time comes and you're stripped of everything you have ever loved, neither you nor your petty powered friends will have an excuse, and that will compound your failure even more."

"Strong words for a guy who won't show his face," countered Wally. Bruce shot him a look of annoyance, but Wally merely shrugged in reply.

"The same in kind, whoever you are," replied the voice nonchalantly, "You're all the same. When this is done, you'll hide in your hole, Bruce, a little boy driven your whole life by fear." They heard another agonised grunt of pain, a sharp exhalation from below the microphone, and a chuckle of cruel mirth. Then the communication was cut. Bruce found his hands gripping the console so hard it was shaking.

"Tracing failed," he sighed abruptly, and bowed his head.

"Any voice matching possible?" Clark asked.

"Suuurree," Wally said, looking at calculations already running by the side of the screen, "But unless our mystery dude is... Alfred Pennyworth-"

"He would nail the final insult in," growled Bruce, turning away in disgust.

"He knows who you are," Diana said, laying a hand on his arm.

"His arrogance shows."

Bruce thought of this unknown threat, hiding in his own little hole, believing himself untouchable. He thought of Matthew McGinnis, eyes drawn in his too young face, and of his mother, with her bravado, and the promise he had made to them both. He'd made a lot of promises in his time. He thought of Alfred, and felt his heart clench, of Dick, of Barbara, of Tim. He thought of what had brought them together, and what had made him push them away, and his beating heart told him. Love. Love was a terrible, arcane thing. It coated your marrow and each sinew and made it pump beyond mere human will. He had always thought it his flaw: that he could love, that he could allow himself to care too much, too deeply, since all that got beyond his impenetrable exterior was wounded, destroyed. But now it boiled in him, moulding itself, changing. Love was a weapon. Love was a shield. All his rage, and torment, held up by the love of all that was his, and all that could have been his, and all that he hoped someone else would never have to be denied. He sensed rather than felt Diana's hand on his arm, just touching the sleeve, almost like a conduit to an ancient force that ran past the cave floor, past the ocean, through space and back again. Love was terrible, painful, crushing. His love was a terrible, mighty whirlwind, and whoever this fool was, he would tremble in the face of its towering force.

"He wants to rumble," said Bruce to the darkness. "Let's rumble."


	22. Chapter 22: The Board is Set

a/n: Whoosh, it's been a while. Time to get the plot moving. Thanks to all who've been reading and reviewing and all that, truly much appreciated (:

**Chapter 22**

"You've got a plan," Wally said. It wasn't a question. Bruce considered if it was worth his breath informing the Flash that his talent for stating the patently obvious was unparalleled, then settled for arching his eyebrow in a manner which communicated said sentiment.

"What, some sort of disrupter you've got stored somewhere, EMP?" Clark asked after. Bruce didn't bother sparing him a glance in this instance. He was already filtering through the itinerary accessible either to him or the League, which effectively would mean him at any rate.

"Most items these days are proofed against electromagnetic pulses, and besides, even if half the city weren't, what's to stop our invisible friend here from proofing his? Doesn't take a genius," Bruce muttered half to himself, lifting his cane to set it at a pace towards the computer together with his feet. "There is a device with more finesse though. Orion's Arrow. Operates at a sub electron level with high concentration. Bends refractions and reflections basically to create a corkscrew of radiation. It would effectively short circuit any device within a twenty metre radius, miniature ones included." His face darkened. "But we need whatever they have intact, if we want to find anything quick."

"They have to be running on some sort of frequency, right? Can't we just jam it?" Wally said, kneading the back of his neck with one hand.

"They are jamming our frequencies already, electronic and biological," Diana replied, "We wouldn't know what to direct a counter frequency to."

Specificity… did they really need it? Bruce stole a look at Clark, and saw the steeled still muscle that was ready to be a sledgehammer in any given situation, whether the situation required it or not. Perhaps… something like that might work. Bruce almost laughed at the seeming simplicity of it.

"Overload," he said, and the others stopped their debate, turning their attention to him.

"We overload all frequencies. Indiscriminately." Giant sledgehammer. "It would also mean a dissolution of all communicative devices." That was the reason it had been voided as soon as he had thought of it when they had first encountered the equipped gangsters. For all intents and purposes it would mean a shutdown of the city. Anything from elevators to airport control towers, from housewife gossip to stock market trading. Traffic pre-emption systems would be thrown out of whack, and the entire city had routed its technology for decades now. Disaster control by trying to strike at a time in which the inhabitants were less active was irrelevant, impossible, in a city which never slept. There'd be as much chaos as the first option, more easily rectified, yes, but chaos was what this Guan Gong, or whoever he was, wanted, wasn't it? Forcing him to burn a barn to find the needle in it.

"If there's too much data on their system, they can't send or receive anything, which means they won't be able to send out whatever interference they currently are," Clark mused.

"Seems our best option," Wally added, and the man was right.

"Our own communication will be cut off beyond proxy once the device is activated," Bruce murmured, then lifted his eyes to the screen. "I suggest we plan our game." An elaborate game of tag. No, he wouldn't even give Guan the dignity of a the chess board he seemed to have set up in his city. He wanted to play? Bruce would play along with him, and beat him soundly. He would have to believe that, because the alternative was unthinkable.

"And… where are we getting this major overloading device? Please say Wayne Enterprises," Wally called from the giant coin. His voice reverberated through the cave walls, Bruce noted absently, visualising the effect of the Omnid, as its makers had called it. Bruce had to credit them for keeping the name short.

"The whole city's walls would be used as a board off which what we're going to employ is going to function. A giant antenna, or conductor, if you will. No, an amplifier. A prototype was been tested in Old Mexico before the rebuilding. Impossible to carry out an experiment on an actual city without widespread damage."

"Please say Wayne Enterprises."

"The concept it never largely employed under a civilian or even military tactic, as it would disrupt all communication, not just that of the opponent. They've considered using it as a pre-emptive of sort just before moving in with heavy artillery. Wayne Enterprises did begin the development before Powers took over, but he apparently never viewed it as very...lucrative. R&D shelved it."

"Please say Fox-teca."

"Ai-lat bought over the design specifications and brought the project to completion," Bruce finished, before steepling his fingers and swivelling round in his chair. He could hear the wet slap of a palm on forehead as Wally West strolled into view, hand left in its position crushed against his skull for prolonged dramatic effect. Bruce resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Clark didn't. Wally eventually moved his hand and opened his mouth once again to speak, again.

"So now you want us to rob the place that you and the Guan guy are essentially fighting over, I mean, if you are connecting him to Huang Holdings and all."

"Ai-lat is well known for its high security," Diana offered.

"Sounds like a day's work to me," Clark grinned, his heels lifting themselves imperceptibly off the ground, almost. Noticing, Bruce held up a hand to stall the overgrown, too young Kansas Kryptonian, not without a small smile playing around his own lips.

"Almost. Like I said, we'll plan. Not all of us can be involved in this extraction."

"Oh? Why not?" Diana asked.

"Because, Princess," Bruce said, the smile tugging mercilessly at his lips now as he extended a finger to point at Diana, "you have a date." He paused a moment longer, allowing the deliciously buoyant feeling sink in at the looks of growing confusion of his colleagues. "We have a date."

"You're joking," Wally said, then corrected himself almost immediately. "No, but you don't joke. Supes, tell me he's joking. Diana?"

"Bruce?" Diana asked. Bruce hit a button on the console in response. A private message opened up on the screen, window enlarging, the unmistakable logo of Huang Holdings centred in the header.

"Hungry Ghost Festival. Mid Autumn, really. They hold a dinner every year, extended to most major and minor companies along the coast, the Chinese ones especially. Powers has never failed to attend." Bruce himself sneered at the artful sheen of the animated invite. He continued in his didactic tone. "It would be unseemly," Bruce said, "for Bruce Wayne not to appear after retaking the helm of his company." He smiled here, it was cold, brusque, business like, meant for paparazzi cameras and the press, and all the more incongruent in the depths of the Manor. "The Huangs like to hold it in the middle of the Hungry Ghost month."

"There'll be no moon tomorrow," Diana noted half consciously. Bruce nodded, but didn't pause.

"It is customary for bachelors to bring a date with them, for appearances sake," he finished, glancing askance at Diana as he did so. She smiled in return, and his own chill one gained warmth from it.

"Relegating an ambassador to call girl, Mr. Wayne?" a voice came from the top of the stairs, and they all turned to look. "Or hired muscle? Bribed? Coerced? Charmed? Never could tell, with you." Barbara Gordon descended the staircase, hands deep in her trench coat and lips thinned in what her men had grown accustomed to identifying as a grim smile. Though not without humour. Barbara Gordon had, she believed, a greater sense of humour than the old crotchety man she was currently addressing, along with a greater common sense and sometimes foresight. That humour was currently channelled despite her otherwise frosty exterior, of which Bruce had grown accustomed to in the days gone by. Perhaps the cave was the true dampener. The crease between Bruce's eyebrows tended to deepen into unfathomable shadows in it, and after a while even Wally's voice would begin to sound muted. At least, Wally's voice had sounded muted to Barbara as she neared the entrance five minutes ago. She turned her attention to Bruce again.

"The bike's in the garage. I took the liberty of placing it there myself."

"Thank you," Bruce acknowledged, half rising from his chair before decision took hold of his limbs and extended them fully. He tapped another button on the console and the floor plans and schematics of the Ai-lat research tower unfolded across the screen. Barbara raised an eyebrow, eyes wider than usual by just a touch, hands tightening through her coat, Bruce observed, watching the cloth around her pockets warp into a sudden crease. "Excuse us, a moment," he told the three, before moving towards the top of the steps. Clark, Diana and Wally immediately began studying the entry and exit points of the building with a sort of intensity that served to contrast all the more with the silence that had descended on the pair that stepped out of the cave onto the plush carpet of the hall.

Barbara was the first to speak. "I hope you know what you're doing, Bruce," she muttered, hands still resolute in their position in her pockets.

"Like you said," Bruce murmured sotto voice, "I'll have hired muscle about me." Barbara answered with a choked laugh, hoarse from too many scalding coffees and cigarettes as she bore the brunt of achieving justice through the corrupt system that was Gotham.

"Hired muscle that belongs to who, Bruce? Diana can't save you from if you insist on walking into death traps. The Chinese are ruthless. We'd sent a mole once. He came back in an urn, limbs and tongue chopped off, delivered to the doors of Gotham Central Headquarters." She shook the hair that had fallen in front of her face and looked up at the clock, lips twisted in a grimace of a smile. "You don't need to be insane to be sick and cruel. Do you even know what you're dealing with?" She directed her eyes to Bruce's at the last. His were calm, so calm, Barbara knew, as before a storm, not after.

"Yes," he said.

"I hope you do. I don't want anyone else hurt, do you understand, Bruce?" she asked. Bruce was studying her hair, wondering if the fiery nature that he'd long associated with her red tresses were hammered into the iron grey by some strange blacksmith of time and tragedy.

"I need your help, Barbara," he said, looking straight at her now. "There will be chaos."

"Which you will create."

"Which I will engineer, and therefore control."

"Which I will have to clean up after?"

"No," Bruce said, "which you will help to control." Then Bruce told her the plan. The air was still about them and Barbara was still and eventually the stillness buzzed with the static pins and needles of a muscle rediscovering itself after being cramped and quashed into dormancy. This time Barbara did not smile, but she held out her hand instead, and Bruce clasped it.

"It seems I must trust you again, Bruce," she said. "It seems that there is little else one can do when it comes to you." The bitterness in her eyes held a trace of something not quite sweet in it, but not quite wholly bitter either. Bruce chose not to comment.

* * *

J-man was like, in an ultimate fizz 'cos like, this wasn't his patch man, this wasn't what like he did. He felt naked without the grease (well advanced polymer latex which maintained the skin, thank you, not all the girls liked spotted faces) paint that was his usual garb every night. Suits he could deal with, but this cut was like total different from the loose cool purple ones that were his and his alone, that defined him man. Man, sent down to just be your average, what was he supposed to be? A waiter? The Great Guan Gong had told him that if he did this right he'd be totally back in the game, or at least that's what Old Lin had said the Great Guan Gong had said. J-man needed that like he needed to skeet around crazy on a dark as a duck night like thissun was, tearing up the old streets for the good old times and old little grannies who needed the help to make their neighbourhood look kinda more oldish like they did.

It'd been a while since J-man was top man, ever since the Joker had ridden into town and picked up a bunch of goons that were otherwise on the C-list of the gang roster and turned them into total rad mains on the street. Unschway man, like total unschway and you do not slag J-man without him getting back to slag you into the slag pits of shmuck. He was the J-man, man, you did not turn your dog nose up at that whether you were the real Joker or not. But the DeeDees had been pretty sure, and kooked up as they were, they had connections, family connections that were kinda rattled about after the Joker had found them. Like, the reason why the Joker had found them in the first place. Yeah so, when the Joker ditched he thought he'd go and get them on in his team, boost his rep back a bit, only to find that some crazy guy was recruiting both Ts and Jokerz to work for The Great One, all terrible and mighty and the ultimate schway dude as you would ever see.

No one told him when he signed up for it that he'd be out here doing no fun work like what no fun boy probably did for scary old dude Wayne WAYNE WAYNE (man, his name needed to stop coming up, it was bad for the karma, man, like J-man's personal god karma, not that he was prayery or anything) every other day of the week. Man, and the collar was stiff. He thought of the starched stuff he'd seen in old costume shops down at the old end of the undermarket. Felt like it. Smelt like it too, or maybe that was from all the burning sticks further down the cruise ship's upper deck. Like Halloween for the Chinese, or something, and some crazed wild partaying for the jewels and sniffy well kept of Gotham. Thugs was thugs, no matter how shiny they were though, J-man thought to himself, not that he wanted or needed to be shiny, no. It was kinda stifling, all this handshaking and curtseying around him, and he saying welcome sir welcome madam welcome welcome every ten seconds was making his tongue feel like it'd been smashed into cracked glass. Man, what he wouldn't give to crack some glass right now. He made a face, and touched the gun in his inner pocket to reassure himself. Steel meant he was the J-man, man, you didn't mess with metal, no how. He could deal with a few more hours of this.

At this point he stumbled and barely caught himself on the rail of platform, as a murmured apology was given and a dozen camera flashes went off in his face which he was sure would cause some sort of permanent damage. He blinked stupidly, and saw the hand of Bruce Wayne outstretched towards him, and quelled the urge to scoot backwards and off the pier into the sea below.

"I'm terribly sorry," Bruce Wayne said, "It seems I underestimated my ability to cross the walkway, young man." J-man was glad for once that his hair was all slicked back and not in the pompadour he usually favoured, and that his face wasn't covered over in white mud and he was this night just Jesse Kilpatrick to all and sundry.

"No bother sir, welcome aboard sir, have a good night, sir," he grinned and gibbered. Bruce Wayne smiled genially, and fished some credits from his trouser pocket, tucking it into Jesse's before being led away by a very stunningly beautiful lady with hair as rich and black as a midnight sky in the untouched regions of space. The camera flashes went off again, and when the whiteness had cleared from Jesse's eyes, the couple had already made their way into the ship. He fingered the credits in his pocket. Maybe standing out here wasn't quite so bad after all.

They entered the ship, both looking at each other on hearing the minute crackle that told them that their comlinks would be useless as long as they remained on the ship. Bruce made his way to the table as the waiter within had directed him, two tables diagonally off from the stage that had been set up on one end of the deck, Diana by his side. It was round, seating ten, a Lazy Susan holding cups of Chinese Tea and a pot in plain white crockery. Nodding greetings to those seated with him, he reached for a cup of tea and brought it to his lips. Jasmine, a bit dry, with a strange lack of aftertaste that he had never quite got used to. The media frenzy that dogged the place had been in full force during his entrance, with the same scattered questions about Terry's disappearance, quickly changing their tune to comment on the presence of the Themysciran Princess by his side. Though the diversion of which if gave was what he was counting for, he couldn't account for the sneer that he had to repress in demurely uttering some flattery of his companion to appease them. For her part, Diana seemed to be taking it well. Bruce was glad for this, as he sipped at the tea.

The second time he brought the cup down from his lips, he noticed a man approaching. He was short, portly, with a pencil moustache and a receding hairline. Bruce recognised him as Mr. Tan, Dana Tan's father. "Mr. Wayne," he said, putting forth his hand in greeting. He looked uncomfortable, standing rigid as if to prevent himself from slipping on the highly polished floor. His face was grave. "You are brave to come here tonight," he said, voice low, now clasping his hands behind him. "One hears things."

Bruce gave a narrowed smile, a raised his voice slightly above the murmurings of the crowd, light and airy, "I trust your daughter has recovered?" Mr. Tan bowed in response, quick to follow suit.

"Yes, sir, what has happened is unfortunate. Your fortitude in appearing despite it is no doubt to be commended, along with your choice of companion for the evening," he gave a bow to Diana, who smiled politely in deference. "Again, a pleasure to meet you." He held out his hands again in a double handshake and firmly grasped that of Bruce's, before departing. Bruce reached for the napkin in front of him, and as he laid it in his lap, flipped open the note that had been slipped into his hand.

'Moon wanes.' Wayne. 'As warning and example to brotherhood. GG. HH.' Guan Gong. Huang Holdings. Good, at least Fox-teca was more than aware of the underworld's surge. Lucius the younger had been wise to adopt and fund the many entrepreneurs from Asia that had entered Gotham's shores over the past few decades.

A hush fell upon the room as he folded the note and slipped it into his pocket. Diana had reached out to grip his arm. Bruce looked. On the stage the spotlight had been turned on, and the ceiling lights were being dimmed even as the curtain rippled, and an ancient Chinese warlord strode through. An elaborate headdress adorned his mask, filaments of golden feathers fanning out from the crown, while the face itself was a blood red sheen detailed with angry black stripes. Like the design they'd seen in the photos, on the walls, near where Terry had been taken. Upward god, downward man, apparently, for Guan Gong had chosen a finely tailored evening suit, the rippling of brute strength just discernable beyond the crease and fold of inky, black cloth. A modernised god. Bruce decided that he would ensure that the fall would be infinite. He lifted a hand to the audience.

"_Hing Dai_.*" The words licked over each person like a hail of brimstone. His gait was deliberate, slow, powerful, intended to impose and impress and intimidate. Trays of Chinese buns and roasted meats followed, and were placed on the table in front of him, where a trail of incense curled over the suckling pig that was the centrepiece of the banquet display. The effect produced stunned the guests into silence, then a raised applause, almost manic, as Guan Gong raised his hand in condescending benevolence, and the banquet began. Bruce sat unmoving, eyeing him from a distance, staring him down till the mask shifted, turning in his direction.

"Bruce?" Diana asked softly as they passed round the soup that was being served.

The mask's slits seemed to narrow further, the lines growing more fearsome, while Bruce's face melted to stubborn impassiveness as they held each other in their gazes, past the smoke and dimly lit room, past the bustling waiters and flow of wine and increasing coarseness in the conversations that spun about them. The minute stretched out, and Bruce was content to let it stretch further before he allowed his lips to twist upward viciously and mouthed, 'Hello'. Then he broke the contact and returned to his food, seemingly oblivious to what had just transpired. A few metres away from him in the stage, Guan Gong smouldered, and with a flick of his finger directed an attendant to him. A few whispered words later he himself rose and quitted the dining area.

Conversation took an immediate turn. The confirmation of the presence of the great Guan Gong, the protector of businessmen, with promises that had been spread, that if they joined in brotherhood, they would once again rule and supersede and own, together, as brothers, what was rightfully theirs. It was not just a ploy by Huang. He was true, he existed. The command he held over all was the proof that god or man or reincarnate, he would hold true to the promises that they had heard. Looks and glances were aimed at Bruce, calm, sitting there. He was a fool, they would whisper, trying to go against the Great One, not engaging in the profiteering that his company could be the ultimate vehicle for. If Powers had still been in control, they said, the fear mongering would have been unnecessary, everything would have been so smooth. By the fifth course the back of Bruce's neck was itching from the stares lobbied to the back of his skull.

He wiped his mouth, then doubled over an instant later, cringing as he gripped the table cloth and an unknown force pounded through his left ear. Diana beside him had similarly started, but now reached for her ear and tapped off the communicator. His eyes darkened. "What have they done?" he grimaced. A waiter near their table had crashed to the floor, and was currently the butt of jokes from the drunk party surrounding him. The idiot from the walkway, Bruce realised, and one of the lead Jokerz. The youth fumbled near his side pocket before shaking his head like a confused beast and propping himself up. Bruce decided to be charitable as he got up and held out a hand to help him stand, using the other to steady him at his side while resisting the urge to land a blow to his head, giving the nonplussed fool a very genial smile to cover his derision. One more glance at Diana, and they made their excuses before exiting the cruise.

*brothers - (cantonese)


	23. Chapter 23: Another Life

a/n: Righto, speeding along with the action. Comments very much appreciated (: . Also yay! Because I've managed over 50k words on this fic, which was kind of the goal I set for myself as a side when I started on this. Alright. Onward.

**Chapter 23:**

"Turn it off, turn it off!" Flash said as he swung out of the way of the three laser beams slicing through the room towards him. The Omnid, meanwhile, sat placidly near the entrance, a bulb on it blinking contentedly, as insentient objects were wont to do, very much oblivious to the damage it was causing. He cut off Superman's annoyed look with, "How was I supposed to know that the bot's projectile would land smack in the centre of the switch?"

"You could've calculated…" Superman shook his head even as he punched through one of the aerial drones that had been deployed through the building, ears still ringing from the feedback that had doubled in on the comlink when the switch was turned on. He grasped the wiring at the heart of the robot and flung it at another incoming one, firing it with heat vision, allowing it to land a molten whiplash followed by further help in the form of further beams from his eyes.

"Look, I forgot about the last sensor, okay? The spare bot threw me off my game for half a tick." Which was apparently, all the time it needed for all hell to break loose.

"You've got the ability to memorise things in an instant and you forgot?"

"My son is the one with the long term photographic memory, not me, thanks," Flash retorted as he zoomed past Superman along the wall panelling of the dome shaped room they were in, three stories underground at the north west corner of the Ai-lat R&D facility, 137.5 security drones and three Kryptonite laser guns (honestly, what? As far as the Flash knew, only Superman was susceptible. Was it honestly worth it to proof an entire building for one person. Did they honestly suspect that Superman would one day break into the premises? Did they honestly have to be right?), and a foul up later. Flash took a breath and dived for the Omnid, clicking the switch off as he did so. Estimated 58 seconds between the brain bonking feedback and the magic security of the off button.

"About a minute," he heard Superman say, as another bot flew into view. These things were insane, inane, and just very annoying, doubly so now that they were somehow able to keep up with super speed and the agility of Metas. Future wasn't all it was hacked out to be, and all that.

"58 seconds." Flash shrugged again as they began making their way out of the complex to throw off the look of annoyance that Superman had shot him. "I'm accurate."

"Let's just hope everything else is safe," Superman muttered as they burst through the last door. The streets in the distance were roaring with the sound of cars speeding by, the occasional honk floated over the highway to them, but otherwise the city did not seem struck by chaos. Superman brought a cautious finger to his ear, and switched on the comlink.

"Next time I think it's a good idea to let you two off alone on a mission, stop me." The gravelly, irate tones of Bruce Wayne filtered through loud and clear. Clark almost laughed. Wally had turned on his controls too, and paused to scratch at his chin while giving Superman a look of mock hurt intended for the absent Bruce.

"Aww c'mon, Bats, no harm done, right?"

"Unless you think unexplained and painful feedback is somehow 'no harm done'." That and giving Guan Gong and his men notice that someone was trying to infiltrate their servers. Though Bruce supposed he himself had given the challenge not an hour before.

"It's a miracle there were only two traffic accidents," Diana said over the communicator, "not anything worse."

"I don't quite think they're related Wonds…think they've filtered out the frequencies the traffic use on this machine for now," Wally said, puzzling over the numbers on one panel of the device. "Which is pretty good, right?"

"No," Bruce. Authority incarnate. Well. A man could dream. "It's because Gotham's still got a back up of timed sequence control if anything else happens. However, you could have caused the needless death of a patient being rushed by paramedics through the city, having to stop at an intersection for longer than necessary." His voice was even, just barely, the kind Wally knew was an indication of the man's heavy attempt to suppress his tenaciously held rage.

The safest course of action, he decided, apart from avoiding dangers such as dogged security drones and explosives and acid and the like, was generally not to get in the way of Batman, even if Batman was bordering on eighty and looking it. Bruce's voice came up on the speaker again, all the more sudden from the unexpected lull in vitriol that caused Flash's eye to twitch in surprise. "Nothing on the immediate news feed either about mobile users sudden collapsing in pain," Bruce said. "It seems the doubling back to produce that amplified drone only happened in areas which had additional cloaking security already around them."

Flash heaved a sigh of relief, then choked on it as Bruce's voice blasted through the communicator again.

"You blithering idiots! Anything could've happened. Cave. Stat." A jolt and a heartbeat, and the rush of air flowing past Wally followed. They were there in an instant. Almost. Bruce and Diana arrived short of ten minutes later.

He alighted past the last step, cane in his hand thumping rapidly across the floor as he made his way to the computer.

"We've got the Omnid," Superman said.

Bruce shot him a look. "Well thank you." Pause. Glower. Dismiss. "I do believe I realised that." Clark felt the back hairs of his neck rankle along with his ego. He advanced on Bruce, feet floating off the ground, and stopped just behind the chair, arms folded forbiddingly.

"Lose the act, Kent," Bruce said, back still facing him. Clark sighed and ran his fingers past the sides of his head, back still tense and erect.

"You know, _Bruce_, people make mistak-"

"You know, very well, _Superman_, you don't get that right."

Off to the side Wally whispered to Diana that they were getting too old for this. Hearing that, Clark repressed a slight huff in favour of stopping the migraine that would threaten to build behind his eyes. "Yes," Clark said while pinching the bridge of his nose, "I believe you've said on more than one occasion." He took his hand away again and stared at the unmovable frame that was Bruce Wayne, and continued. "Because Batman never makes mistakes." The fingers across the keyboard gave an uncontrolled twitch, halting for an imperceptible moment, suspended midair before beginning to traverse the console once again, slower, more deliberate. Inwardly, Bruce cursed the fact that if his aborted action hadn't escaped the Kryptonian's notice, his breath coming out in shallower streams was no doubt as obvious as an oncoming freight train, or the endless barrel of a gun pointed between the eyes.

* * *

2019:

He reached the skylight on silent feet, the sky roiling angry behind him a mere foretaste to the anger he had let churn and melt within him, solidifying into iron, stronger than the flaked rusts his hand gripped as he pushed the window further open. He shook off the metal flakes, also red, he noted, like blood, he noted, but only insofar as the absent thought creeped in the fringes of his mind. At the forefront, where it was vital, necessary, he was scanning the area. Five hostiles, armed, calm. One unconscious outside. One hostage, heartbeat quick, raced breathing, no doubt pupils dilated by fear and exhaustion. Head bowed. Helpless. Hopeless. He would not stand for it, he promised with narrowed eyes.

The gun appeared, and he felt hate. It coursed through him, filling him as he dropped down with deadly precision, delivering a routine uppercut to the would be killer's jaw. It was routine, it was all routine, simple, easy. The men were dispatched in an instant, and he heard the crash of flesh and bone and metal and the light flurry of bank notes spilling onto the ground from beyond the plane that sat shining, unaware of the violence that took place around it, in blissful ignorance of those who would use it for evil. He stole a breath, then choked, as pain filled his lungs and wound in tight coils around his heart, unable to stop the spasm that shook him as he had done the thugs not half a minute before.

The girl. He had to rescue the girl.

He didn't even have time to register the crowbar before it ploughed into the back of his head. Only saw red, a grinning, manic face, a voice, greased with ill humour and curdled aggression, and the floor, constantly the floor coming up again to meet him, the rough concrete clinging to his suit to hold him down, again, and again, and again. He tried to stand up, thought he did, gravity pulling him down again as he swung blindly. Like a Bat, he thought, as he lay cheek pressed against cold hardness, vision swimming in and out before focusing on dim salvation.

And he could not stand.

It was so easy, even as his heart pounded from more than adrenaline, pounded from his weakness and pounded his weakness back to him, like a neverending folding of metal sheets under the mastery of a ruthless blacksmith. His mind blanked, and retreated to the realm of instinct, of muscle memory and desperation and… the grip in his hand was familiar; the position, prone on the floor doubly so. He saw it smoke before his eyes even as he pointed it at the thug, he saw his gloved hand holding it, and the heap ten metres away that was the forever still body of Devil Ray, flesh still emitting charred death and the acrid sting of burnt copper and silicon. Still he held the gun, paralysed there as he had been in the many nights where the scene appeared, in his sleep; those twisted dreams, where he felt the gun again, in an imagined reenactment, of how it slipped into his hand, his hand, his finger pulling the trigger, the backslash of the trigger as a single, death giving, life taking bullet sped forth from its commander to fulfil its purpose.

The grunt, the grip of this farcical set turned and ran, lights, camera and all. His own grip kept its death vice as slack, shaking limbs propelled him out of the warehouse, forgetting the girl, forgetting everything, until he lifted his hand to his face and found the alien structure of metal still growing from his hand, his finger curled in painful stiffness, like rigor mortis, like death. He heard the gun clatter to the floor, and he heard the curtain fall on his last act, the final fall, the point of no return culminated in that pinnacle of failure. It was a mistake, it was all a mistake. Batman was a mistake, and he an aberration, a survivor turned victimiser who did not deserve the gasps that were restoring the wasted heart within him to normal, because he wasn't normal. Far from it. He was a mistake. His vengeance had redounded on his own head. This was the true anagnorisis, but leading to a point past return without catharsis. Without purging, because what was foulest; darkest; vilest within him, could never be washed away. Once upon a time, he hadn't counted on being happy. But neither had he counted on being quite so damned.

Never again.

* * *

2041:

"Sophie, get me those numbers and locations like I asked you to. In print. Move it, now," Barbara hollered past the doorway into the outer office. The young officer came in a moment later, sheaf of papers in hand, fringe falling over in her eyes, having dislodged themselves from the usually tight bun the currently frazzled girl preferred. Barbara considered her with no small amount of sympathy, but she gave her a look, that while appreciative, had the unspoken volumes of a battle hardened veteran looking on and saying 'You ain't seen nothing yet, kiddo'. She looked at the list of numbers, all 258 lines of them, with the corresponding street address. Coffee. She would need the coffee, tonight. Lots of it. Grabbing her tumbler from the top of her desk, she hit the signal calling all precinct heads to meet in the main headquarters, checked her holster, and walked out, studying the list further.

Ten minutes later a school of lounging males were seen passing coffee and doughnuts in the large conference room. Well, and two females. Barbara tried not to bewail the state of the police force. Now was not the time. Gotham's Finest would have to be just that.

"I need half the force out a distributed along the areas allocated in the envelopes given to you. At least two to the main coordinate, I strongly suggest one of you personally, with a pool of ten surrounding them, and a further ten moving up, reaching the main level of Gotham."

"You're wanting us all to head to lower Gotham, what is this, flushing out a triad? Free Mason sabotage?" a voice asked from among the crowd. Barbara stared resolutely at the city map pinned on the wall in front of her, angling her chin towards the question.

"This is crowd control," she said, then waited for the pandemonium that was sure to come. It did. She held up a hand till the murmurings died down, unwillingly, grudgingly, disparaging comments about female superiors creeping in as they tended to do. She'd been dealing with this for years, she realised now. She'd been dealing with it for years and she wasn't quite sure if dealing with Bruce for years prior had been a form of training or not for the infuriating people with whom she shared the same breathing space regularly.

"With any luck, we will also be taking down the Tongs in a cleaner sweep than we could've hoped."

"Who's been doing the investigation?" "Our branches have not been briefed, or updated." "Don't tell me you've sent another mole, didn't the last one come almost dead?"

Barbara bowed her head, and squeezed her eyes shut and sucked in a breath before she could get out her next reply. This was going to hurt. "The information comes from Batman." The responding chorus of disbelief was enough to make her turn around. The loudest of them she narrowed her eyes at till he noticed, and with an appreciating audience around him, lifted his hands theatrically and gave a cynical, lopsided grin.

"Oh sure, Batman! SURE," he said, sugar and crumbs spraying from his mouth after a vengeful bite of doughnut.

"We are in jeopardy, Henry. There is no alternative. Unless of course you wish to have an out of control city on your head?" The room fell silent, before the previous sceptic asked again, muted this time, "But what's going on?" Barbara wished she could give a sound, solid answer, but she could not. Bruce so owed her. She felt now what her father must have whenever he called off men, or sent them to places on standby for reasons even he didn't know, all because of his fabled trust in a fabled myth which the force alternatively revered, feared, or condemned.

"I don't know. But I'm trusting Batman here. And you have to trust me." Being Commissioner had its advantages. They were silent now.

"What are on these coordinates anyway?" doughnut boy spoke again. Barbara levelled a look at him.

"Pay phones." She wondered if the feeling that bubbled in her as he choked on his food was one of disgust or gratified amusement. She suspected both.

"What? I ain't gonna go out and just wait at a pay phone-"

"You all have ten minutes to get your men prepped, half an hour to get into position, and I suggest you do it as soon as possible. And don't forget torches, maybe a morse code refresher manual for those of you that need it. All on the job must be competent in morse. I cannot emphasise this enough. Incognito, all. We don't need attention drawn any more than necessary. Go. Wait for my signal." A shuffle of papers and feet and the officers began streaming out.

She packed her own comlinks into her pocket and headed for the door. Not five minutes later, her handphone buzzed, and she routed it to the comlink.

"Sorry. We need to speed things. Ten minutes." Bruce. Barbara swore, then fired her communicator.

"All briefed, you have ten minutes to get to where you need to. Move. NOW." She stalked off, swinging her trench coat over her shoulders like a cape (hah, she had to laugh at the irony of that) as it billowed about before settling like armour around her. Past the corner, her own soon to be deputy was standing, looking for the life of him like the slob he liked to give the impression of. It was Henry, and Henry was still protesting.

"Do we even have pay phones anymore? Aren't those things outdated? Oi, the Commish, no really, she wants me to head the worst part of Old Gotham just to wait by a cruddy phone? What does she think-"

"Bullock," Barbara said. He raised open palms, whirling round to face her.

"What, Commish? C'mon, be honest with me here."

"Don't argue with me, Henry Bullock," Barbara cut in, ire increasing with each syllable.

"But-"

"Go wait at the damn phone. I'm friends with your Dad. He was good to me. Doesn't mean I'm not your boss. You take orders from me, you follow those orders. When I tell you to think, you think. I'm not telling you think right now. You DO know what a pay phone looks like, don't you, Bullock?" She stared at him, then a sly look crossed her face, and she said, "Don't forget that I also helped to babysit you-"

"Okay, okay! I got it, I got it. Done. Gone. Men on standby. Got it." He ran off. Barbara deflated and slumped against the back of a chair. So far she'd got through the evening aiding a vigilante, and blackmail. Oh yes, the life of a cop.

* * *

From the top of Huang Holdings, a brutal business mogul in a red mask leered down at the invisible inhabitants of the city, then leered down at the crumpled youth at his feet. Terry McGinnis stirred, groaned, and instinctively tried to sit up. Guan Gong smiled an invisible smile, held behind the mask, and turned fully round to face this battered, bruised child, who thought he could be some sort of saviour.

"They'll get you," Terry said, stiff jawed, one side swelling up: beautifully, the masked man thought to himself. Brutality was an art form not many would appreciate, and one which he had in his life and his travels. The boy had backed up to lean against the full length windows that ran round the perimeter of the room, panting, sweat beading past his brow and eyelids struggling to keep themselves open.

"How very trite," he responded. "Though I don't suppose your mentor was good for training in the 'quips' department." He considered the boy. "No," he thought out loud, lowering his chin to better examine the boy. "There was another much more inclined for that. I almost humbled him, once," he mused, flexing his hands at the memory. "And in another time, another life, I killed him." Indifferent nonchalance hung in the last syllable like a muted wind chime. A pitiless glance at Terry McGinnis showed the boy's face frozen in bloodless shock. The young, always wearing their hearts on their sleeves. Now the boy's eyes hardened. His next words seemed the standard refrain for those who found themselves under his heel, no doubt the boy's own, having repeated approximations of it through his stay on the hard surface of his marbled floor.

"He'll get you."

How very trite.


	24. Chapter 24: The Symbol

a/n: thanks to all who've been reading and commenting! For those who want to know, as this occurs way before Epilogue in JLU, Terry as no clue as to his real parentage. Bruce does though, by this point. But Bruce has also a very fierce (if often paranoid) protective streak over any who come under his wing. Comments and criticism once again welcome (:

**Chapter 24:**

Terry figured he was in a bit of a mess. His arms were locked, fists immobilised as he had been when dragged into an elevator, then chucked onto hard coldness, where the masked dreg was. Guan Gong, he said. Whatever. J-man had been right about them not being allowed to touch him, but he hadn't say anything about Terry not getting beaten up at all. Figured. He had felt like chattel, being shoved through corridors, onto floors, the like. The restraints weren't helping him think otherwise either. Nope. And the electric whips the Dee Dees carried were freaking him out, and he wasn't quite sure why. He'd been licked twice across the shoulder, and judging by what he was sure were burns further up his arms, they'd managed to wrap them round when he first made that stupid mistake.

He hoped Dana was safe. And the old man. Then as the blows came raining down along with commentary on 'the delightful satisfaction of fist against flesh' by the towering masked man, he hoped he'd be left with at least a few bones unbroken. Somewhere along it he remembered shouting something before being slugged indelicately in the face, after which he felt the burn of carpet fibres on the far end of what seemed to be an office, up on a raised dais. He thought he had heard Bruce's voice over a speaker, but could do nothing but groan. Then a heavy foot had come down on his solar plexus, and he heard the snapping of ribs. Another crushing force on his right leg, and he had felt something give way along with the agony. It was a precautionary measure, he realised then, to prevent him from running away, or doing anything.

"Like a lamb," the dreg had said with cruel mirth. "For slaughter."

Terry had spat blood at his feet, and he had laughed, then exited the room. Dehydrated, starved (really, crusts of cube rations stuffed into his mouth and downed with what tasted worse than cola subzero were not a meal), swaying in and out of consciousness, yeah, he was in a fix, he had thought then, before blacking out for what was one time too many in the last twenty four hours. Noises every now and then would cause him to stir, but by the time he came to fully, the sun was already going down. Low murmurings filtering past the door told him someone was on guard, somewhere, somehow, but that it seemed they didn't think it necessary to keep someone watching over him in the same room. The trickle of water he heard caused him to look blearily over to his left. Sure enough, a fountain near the side wall. Some feng shui thing.

He almost scrabbled to it and dunked his head in to drink. Emerging moments later, he felt the sting of cuts and bruises around his face. It was still difficult to breathe, to move, one leg now useless, yet still held by the restraints. Slaggit, he needed to sit up. He edged his way, movements slow and agonised now that his head felt clearer, till he reached the windows, and rested his forehead against it. After a few breaths, he lifted his head again. He could see the city stretching out before him from this vantage point. 'Must be pretty high up', he thought to himself. The business district too. No way this entire building was concealed… which meant whatever was stopping Bruce from finding him for this long must be located on his own person. He craned his neck around, in the hopes of spotting any device on his clothes. Nope. He stared out the windows again, catching his reflection in it.

If he could've slapped his forehead just then, if slapping his forehead wouldn't have involved sending black holes to invade his vision, he would have. Of course. The cuffs. High grade, that he knew from trying to get out of them (and failing), but they looked like one of the latest to enter the market, keyed to lock down even further if the electronics were busted as a precaution, requiring a manual key after. Bruce had showed it to him, and they'd used it on Savage after the last round. Hrm.

But if the camo device was embedded in it... it was worth a shot. It wasn't like he was able to get out on his own at this point, anyway. Electronics, electronics… water. Were the cuffs water proof? He supposed he would find out. Angling his way back to the fountain was another slow process, made slower by the fact that he was going as quietly as possible. Back against the running water, Terry squeezed his eyes shut, clamped his jaws as hard as he could, and plunged his arms into the waiting stream. It didn't take long before barbed pain shot up his arms and through him. He doubled over, pain in his ribs forgotten as this new pain swept over him, teeth about to break for being crushed so harshly against each other.

Then he was left gasping for air as the shocks worked their way out of him, eyes wide, face flushed and sweat pouring down his neck.

No, he didn't think the makers considered that anyone would be crazy enough to want to electrocute themselves when it made no difference to their chances of escaping. He only hoped that the camo components weren't waterproof. _That'd_ be a laugh. Still panting, he made his way to the foot of the dais, if only to prop his head on the step as he thought. Thought.

Yes, McGinnis, not the cleverest, are we. The best bet would be to contact the Martian. But how was he meant to contact the telepath when he knew nothing about, had never met him, and had never established any sort of telepathic connection? Terry predicted a headache, then shut his eyes and concentrated as much as he could. How did one find a telepath… how did one…

_Hello._

His eyes shot open, and saw standing in the middle of the room a girl with jet black hair, and wide, calm eyes.

_Tamara?_

_Who else?_

_You've... grown._ Tamara smiled shyly, then her features fell into concern as she looked at him. Terry nodded grimly. I need your help, Tamara.

She looked unsure, looking down and fiddling with her skirt.

_Tamara…_

Her head tilted up again. _How can I help?_

_I need you to contact… this guy in China. A Telepath_. At her further insecurity, he changed his mind. _No, no, never mind that, I need you to contact Wayne. I need you to tell him where I am. Could you… d'you think you could do that for me?  
_  
_If you provide a mental image of him, I could get to him, I could. And show him this place too._

Terry nodded, and smiled, and thought, and thought, and would've thought some more if he hadn't heard the sound of angry footfalls approaching the door. He shut his eyes, and feigned unconsciousness. I _hope that's enough_. _You should go._ Time to play possum for a bit, he thought to himself. After some delay, he pushed himself into a sitting position, and when the masked guy seemed content to watch him writhe in pain, shuffled his way back to the windows, cuffs out of sight. Didn't hurt to be careful, he figured, then wanted to laugh again. Sure. Sure, it didn't hurt. Nuh-uh. It hurt so very much, he was barely registering what he was saying to the dreg, concentrating on the image of Bruce as much as he could for Tamara to pick up.

"How very trite," said mystery man for the second time.

Terry managed a sneer. "Yeah, like you're the epitome of originality, mister," he wheezed out. Buy time. That's what he needed to do from now on. Just buy a bit more time.

* * *

"You know, Bruce, I don't get it."

Bruce tried to ignore Clark, but couldn't help saying, "It wouldn't be the first time your wonderful intelligence has failed you, Kent." Sarcasm was ever dependable. He jabbed ruthlessly at the keys on the controls, and waited while the computer printed out the schema and maps.

"See, that's just it. Why must you always be like this?" Clark said, still behind him. "Be this antagonistic?"

"Are you questioning me?" He turned away from the screen, raising his chin, eyes tightly concentrated on Clark Kent's own.

"Am I not allowed? Another thing in your list of things I don't have the right to do?"

"Guys…" Wally piped in, "This isn't really the right ti-" He was shifting anxiously from foot to foot.

"You could've jeopardised everything!" Bruce said, hurling rage at both the Speedster and the Kryptonian. Metas. Overgrown babies. Charging into things without consideration of the consequences. He paused, stared at the ground as he tried to stop his fists from trembling, flexing his fingers to get them back under control, willing his eyes to rid themselves of the rising desperation that had been scratching at his throat since the call from Guan Gong. "Need I remind you that _you_ are the invulnerable one, not _others_," he ground out, voice still shaking.

"Bruce," Superman's voice was soft, understanding. Bruce would've wept in frustration from the sympathy the man seemed incapable of not giving out in unhealthy doses, or wreck the many training bots at his disposal, possibly both. He cringed at the sudden surge of weakness he felt run through him. "We'll get him, Bruce." Bruce turned away, seeking support from the back of the chair as he pressed the back of his head further into it.

"Kent," he said, loosening his grip on the stack of papers, now flipping through them by the light of the screen. "Your optimism is unnecessary."

Superman's mouth twitched in a ready response, but Diana quickly stepped between them, voice even, sure.

"This really _isn't _the right time for this," Diana said. Both men felt the onset of an impending migraine, but while Superman sighed, Bruce drew himself up further and nodded at Diana.

"She's right," he said, voice reverting to brusqueness. "Due to your blunder," here he looked at Superman again with narrowed eyes, "we have to speed up operations." He held up a hand, turning to the sheaf of papers that lay innocuously in the tray, reaching with the other hand to finger their edges before pulling them out. "I don't want to hear it, Clark."

"Batman." He turned from his gaze at the print outs to cast a perturbed brow and Superman, still there, still hovering, still frowning, but almost, just almost plaintive. It was incongruous, that such command of tone would retain gentle warmth, where his would be like gravel crushed into bone; that such strength could both intimidate and comfort, changing with ease at will, where he could only hope to torment. Now, that such surety could offer acquiescence, to him, a man, old and stooped over, was disturbing. And the Kryptonian did it constantly, constantly allowed himself to be directed by Batman, by… Bruce. He stood up, and stepped away from the chair, eyes still trained on Superman, and he offered the plans in his hand. Superman took them wordlessly.

He hoped by now that Barbara had briefed her men, dialling her off to the side, still keeping eye contact with Superman. "Sorry," he said, voice low, "we need to speed things." Clark nodded. He glanced momentarily down, then looked over at the trio in front of him now, addressing the last words to them too, "ten minutes." He clicked off the connection, then wandered to another section of the cave, keying open a door which then slicked open.

"What's that?" Wally called from the main area.

"Side Project," he said as he removed the closet's contents. "Excuse me," he said, stepping off the side, further into the gloom, where he exchanged a tailored suit and cuffs for the same synthetic kevlar-mix that his protégé wore every night, sans electronics, feeling the weave cling to aged muscles as an added vascular support, with slightly more about his thighs. It drew the darkness in even more, he mused, as he secured the trousers. Time to see if the new morning routine had paid off. Yes. He could manage without the stick. He could manage better than he expected.

He cast his shirt off, feeling the black material do the same for his torso as he shrugged it on. The gloves felt like water, fit like a long friend almost forgotten, but it wouldn't do for Bruce to pause in wonder. He turned to the constructs he'd been working on the past year. Light weight polymer, incredible tensile strength, ductile enough for comfort. Customised to fit him. Like a scaffold on a crumbling artifice, he thought, not without a sense of bitter irony. They snapped into place around him, and he made special care to adjust the frames which fit about his legs, flexing each foot in test, before placing each lightly on the floor. He stretched up, with surprising ease, upper body almost as straight as it would have been decades ago. The final locks slid in around his collar bone, supporting the back of his neck. Complete, it allowed for mobility while offering comprehensive support from his neck down to his ankles, the parts connecting at his hip.

Its exterior was shaded in darkened grey, on the front embossed a black bat symbol, which he let his fingers ghost across as he reached for the cowl. He slipped it on, the familiar tightness of cloth around his cheekbones and brow and ears bringing him back years. It moulded around him perfectly, and as he stalked back to his colleagues his gait shifted, each leg surging surely forward, till he stood in front of them, smirk on his face. He nodded at Superman. "You called?" he asked in belated response. Clark grinned.

"Batman," Diana said, smiling, and Bruce, no, Batman, dipped his head in acknowledgement and closed his eyes a moment, feeling the cave fill him, hearing the calls of the bats in the far recesses of the cave filter back up to him, then he opened his eyes behind unrevealing white lenses, set his jaw, and was about to speak when he drew up short, and his lips thinned then fell into a small gape at the apparition in front of him.

_I called too._

"Ace?"

The dog at this point, sniffing around the consoles, had started whining, hackles raised. But Batman was not calling him. Instead he found himself staring into the fathomless, wide eyes of a girl with the straightest ebony locks of hair. His eyes narrowed, and he closed his mouth. "Who are you?"

_You're Terry's Old Man_. At the mention of Terry's name, Batman started again, and tensed at the implied relationship, the reason he'd been on edge since the whole debacle started. _You're awfully hard to contact, you know, and Terry was very good in helping._

"My mind's not the most accessible," he acknowledged. At the puzzled looks of the other three he mouthed assurance to them, then concentrated on the figure of the girl before him.

_No, and my skills have improved. You're a hard one to crack, sir. I'm Tamara._ Tamara said, exuberance bubbling for a moment before she caught hold of herself. _I'm here to show you where Terry is._ The cave around them shimmered, and Batman had the uncomfortable sensation of the ground spinning below his feet before his soles met solidness again. He buckled slightly, then raised himself to look about. An office. Immaculate. Glass windows in place of walls. He gazed out one side of them, trying to get his bearings. It didn't require long. He knew exactly now where Terry was, because he knew that approximately four floors down from where ever this room was, there was a function hall with almost the same view, give or take a few differences due the angle of sightline.

Huang Holdings. Of course.

He gave Tamara a grim nod of gratitude. She smiled. Ace had never smiled, he thought dimly to himself, and this girl reminded him so much of her. He saw her eyes again in Tamara, wide, but not haunted. It gave small cheer, shifting the ball of regret he'd long harboured. _Good luck, sir._ If he were more inclined to idealism, he mused then, as the floor swirled again, he might have believed somehow that the child's blessing could be Ace's own. As it was, he only remembered all the more acutely the words he had spoken himself: to a youngster on his first foray into the dark world that was Gotham's version of heroism. He shrugged the outer suit into better position. Never a last time for things, he figured, including old men in their death throes spoiling for that last blaze of… glory? No. Of Justice, of Vengeance, and of the Night. A final burning eclipse.

"He's being kept in plain sight," he said as soon as the cave returned to his vision, eyes trained on the landing bay, legs itching to break into a run. "I'm thinking as bait."

"Who was that?" Diana asked.

"A friend," he said. "A telepath. Terry rescued her once."

"Handy."

"Thank you, Wally," Bruce said pointedly as he toyed with the cuff of his glove. "We reconvene at the top of Wayne Towers in two minutes. Let's go." He walked to the Batmobile and practically jumped into it, not bothering to watch as the others took off. They would be ready for him by the time he got there. He tried not to inhale too deeply as the Batmobile bolted out of the Batcave. Sure, he'd been in it before, but this, this was freedom. The new suit was lighter than the exo-suit, and as low tech as possible, without compromising the wearer as much as possible. He'd started building it as a test in case anyone hijacked the Batsuit's circuitry again. He was glad now that he did.

He disembarked as they were adjusting the dials on the Omnid. He sent off an electronic message to Barbara. 'Wait for my signal'. They already knew where Terry was, so they wouldn't have to waste time on that. Now just a final rendezvous before they set off in different directions. Police would be on standby to apprehend any sudden appearances of thugs. More to assure those on the streets that everything was fine. The planes had been warned to steer clear of the city's limits. It was necessary. Especially if they wanted to destroy what plans this man who modelled himself after a mercantile good luck charm had in mind. Communication blackout. It would be crippling, deafening to a city that lived and breathed it. Stocks on complete hold. Paramedics had been posted through the city, but who would warn them, who could alert them, if an accident occurred? Failed GPS throwing cars into each other's path. Any number of small scale robberies by those who could elude the many of Gotham's Finest in the large, winding city that was Gotham.

No. It was necessary. And it would be temporary. He signalled to the Flash. "Now." The machine turned on, letting off a soft whir which didn't stop the sudden barrage of car hoots and angry voices that rumbled up from the streets below. It had begun. Bruce raised his hand, and fired a beam of light into the clouds above. The laser was good, developed in the past by Kord Industries, refined by Wayne Technology. From where they were, right above them, the symbol of a Bat flooded the sky. Barbara would know it for what it was. As for the rest of the city, as for Guan Gong…

They had to _know_.

"Batman," Superman's voice was tense, on edge. Batman turned to him. "Do you hear that?"

"What?" Wally asked, nonplussed.

"That… synchronised beeping." Superman rose off the ground and pivoted slowly, eyes narrowed as he scanned the area, before his eyes grew larger. "Remember Las Vegas, guys?"

"What does this have to do with Las Vegas?" Diana asked.

"This is Las Vegas Redux… timed bombs through the city. Miles underground, some in the old subways," he cast an agitated look to Batman, who looked back with a concealing calm. "They seem coated with Kryptonite-synth."

"Inform the Commissioner. Of all the locations." They all had similar laser torches, albeit mini ones. Bruce was already patterning out a message in morse via his. Barbara would get her men to work. In the meantime, comprehension seemed to be dawning over Superman's face like a belated sunrise.

"Why would they-" began Diana, but she was cut off as Superman rounded suddenly on Batman.

"Did you know about this?" he asked. Batman tilted his chin upwards, unspeaking. "What have you not been telling me, Batman?"

"Nothing you need to know."

"Nothing? This is what I think it is, isn't it?" He seemed ready to crash through the windows of Huang Holdings, barely restraining himself, ever wanting to perpetuate his bull in china shop impression. Batman shook his head.

"You go do that now," Batman said, "and this city will explode, and millions of lives will be on your head. Stick to the plan."

Aghast, the Man of Steel cast him one final look of enraged disbelief, then flew off to the downtown. Flash went soon after, hiding his own confusion. Only Diana was left. And him. He positioned the torch so it would remain standing, pointing up at the sky as both a warning and a comfort, larger than ever.

"Batman," Diana said, laying a hand on his shoulder. He didn't pause to wonder that he had leaned into it momentarily before running to the side of the building, grapple claw pointed at the next massive structure opposite. Time to test the suit, he thought to himself.

"You ready?" he called over his shoulder, feeling a certain boyish glee he could not name, feeling a certain sense of being alive. Then he cast off. Diana followed. The Batsignal hung in the sky above them, announcing him, heralding him. Like Beowulf that fateful day as he neared the dragon's cave at the end of his days, he swung past jagged turrets assuredly, aged, but still and once again, the Dark Knight.


	25. Chapter 25: Gauntlet

a/n: I'm really sorry for not updating this sooner. Between exams, assignments, flat issues, and life, I haven't had time to work out this chapter even though I knew what I wanted to put into it. Also, this is slightly more experimental than what I usually do, influences including James Joyce, and plays with chronological shifts without having an explicit time marker. Big thank you to those who've been commenting on the previous chapters, they've really helped encourage me to get this thing going again. Once again, comments and criticism are more than welcome (they fill me with fluffy, happy joy), and thanks for reading!

**Chapter 25:**

They landed on the south side of the building, the balcony three floors down from their intended goal. Batman gave a soft grunt as he landed, fingers splayed on the ground with one hand, the other arm stretching behind him to retract the grapple. His feet were silent, and the sky behind him wasn't a churning red, but a deep angry purple of clouds reflecting the city lights and now the Batsignal. No moon tonight, as assured, even if the skies were to clear, it would just be more dark expanse. But Batman only registered this peripherally. It would not do tonight, to peer at empty fathomless skies. His gaze was focused on a hunt. The hunt.

Then he ran.

He is running and running and the skies were black and deep and red and angry gaping gashed open they are so many self inflicted claw marks over scalp and throat – insanity breathing the air and spewing it back cancerous and awful – aweful – but he cannot stare all he sees is the tunnel the blackness past the overgrown web of weeds which has taken over the takenover take no vermin the building the old building the old cragged building with the iron gate he has just crashed through two minutes ago two seconds two spots of minutiae like blood like pearls which he will not shall not cannot remove from his mind.  
The pearls that were their eyes.  
He remembers.  
-Check there. I'll take the other side. He says to her. She had paused there.  
-You hear that? She says.  
-Music. Singing. He replies. To thin shrill air the wind a papercut blade. Fists clenched. Teeth on edge. Edge of cliff of precipice of falling deeper deeper deeper into a cave.

Entrance spewing fire and brimstone. Cold burning hail in the form of marbles rigged with explosive acid. Stronger than the bile threatening to tear out his gut. Deadly toys. Toys, men, toymen. Toyman. Diana, about to crush him. Now him. Madder than a Hatter. Madder than the Hatter. Unparalleled insanity. Diana's grip around Toyman's throat. Blinding rain. Blinding agony. Snap like a twig, he would. Blinding anger. If anything has happened to Tim he'll break him in two he'll break him he promises he'll break him in two in two into. Too. He'll break. He has broken he is broken. He was broken the moment he was baptised in the blood of two Gothamite martyrs, and what for? What for he asks himself what for. Baptised in blood wherefore and staked with lead cold hard lead his suit all Kevlar and nomex, old model, two years ago, still good for Gotham, not so good for interstellar. Who care's what's beyond the stars anyway, when here, here, vileness breeds. Suit fits, clings, wraps itself around him. Encased, like lead. Might as well be lead. He'll hammer him to pieces. His heart hammers in his throat. Hammers. Hammers of Justice. Kitsch. Stupid souvenir shops in the downtown, capitalising on crime, on crime's battles, on wars. Who doesn't. Mercury running through his veins, frothing in his stomach. Poison. They're all poisoned. Poised like tin soldiers ready to crash and burn and fall and break and break and break in two. He runs.

He ran.

The suit held. He felt wind rush past his face as a flash of gold shot beyond his shoulder. Diana's tiara, aimed straight for a line of fixed security machinery along the wall path, did its work. They clattered to the floor in a shower of stainless steel and copper. Droids rounded the corner up ahead in front of them, steel bodies glinting in the half dark. Batman, the aged, felt a boyish giggle start to fester in his gut. That wouldn't do. He lifted his arm, took aim. The projectiles did the rest of the work. Cemented foam, wet to eat through circuitry. Air pressured firing mechanism. Low-tech. One needed alternatives in a world where a technological consciousness could infect your circuitry like a well trained contingent of assassins. Be prepared. Clark would be proud, if he weren't still throwing a hissy fit. The droids protested, sending low whines as they drooped forward. Their protests were denied. They were rendered useless.

Pity he couldn't interface with thermal and visual sensors. Didn't matter though. The klutzes capering down the steps past the corner were creating enough of a ruckus like the good little boys they were. No finesse, no subtlety. No charm. Pity. Batman heard the footsteps crash closer, then let his fist shoot out from behind the corner. The subsequent thud to the floor was satisfactory as he moved from his concealed position, Diana flanking him. He let his fist fly, teeth flashing for a moment as an unbidden grin graced his face. It'd been too long.

"You're having too much fun," Diana muttered, lips quirked upwards in a pouted smirk. Admirable sort of smirk, that. More admirably, she cast her lasso like a net, then drew it in around two sets of shoulders. The hoods were reintroduced to a force induced blackout as they were accelerated into the left wall. They moved closer to the stairs.

"Am I?" Batman said, half spinning to avoid a hook and landing his own back fist half a second later. The thug crumpled to the ground, holding his head. Batman decided to put him out of his misery with a well aimed heel to his temple. Not enough to kill. Enough to hurt when he came to, eventually.

Diana saw, and commented even as she crushed strewn blasters with the sole of her foot, "Oh yes, definitely too much fun." Further conversation was broken by the ray that shot from the top of the staircase. They ducked, and Batman felt the whiplash of wind as it took the air past the top of his head. Sputtering and harsh whispers came from its source, and Batman's ears pricked at the scuffles. Polyurethane soles on epoxy flooring. Foolish little children. A nod from Diana and they moved up the steps. Swift, silent, calm. Glancing through the banisters. Listening for heavy breathing while silencing his own breaths. The shadows swallowed him.

The shadows swallow him. The flickering lights of the projection playing out before his eyes in grotesque parody of a silent film. Narration provided. Of course. By him. Of course. "Bruce," comes the condemnation, the judgement, in the form of the laughing herald of his hell. Batman's eyes narrowed in anger, in hate. He leaps with despair fuelling him, rage igniting, plunging towards the laughing maniac separated by a glass. Shatters easily, glass. They fall in a shower of tinkles. Jagged chimes spellbound in an orchestration terrible. The shadows lengthen, cast all the more starkly by the lights which flickered incessantly from the decanted projector, spools of film, innocent as they are, depicting frame after frame of agony and torture and madness and evil. Falling faster to the floor, in snaking crumpled heaps. So do the both of them, tumbling down into the grotesque funhouse-home-pen of the soul.

He'll break him in two, he thinks. The maniac grins further, a skull of skin bleached with death, then stabbing pain forces his leg to buckle. He falls. Ribbons of time, of muscle and sinew, rent in two like the snippets slipping into a pool in the room above. The maniac laughs: gleeful, mocking, psychotic.

Drip. Drop.

Psychotic. That's what Tim had thought as he writhed and pulled against the restraints cutting into his wrists, his ankles. Anything, anything to get away from the mad laughter overhead, underneath, within. That was what scared him the most. The evil within. Bright, psychedelic, maniacal laughter, said he would make a son out of him, a little Junior Joker, which would at least be a step up from his current state as Junior Joke. The wonders of a suffix, eh, my boy? The wonders of a little roll of tongue. Tim bit down on his own in an effort not to scream.

Against the sickening flow of cream filled taunts, he thought of a voice black as coal, harsh like the soot that used to get stuck in his eyes in his days on the street. Enough to make grown men whimper and shake in fear. He thought of that voice, as an all avenging guardian. His all avenging guardian demon of the night. They didn't know, out there. His father, his true father, blood and flesh and DNA, would never know beyond the shadow of the bat. Didn't know that the voice, at moments, less so now than before, could modulate into rich chocolate. The sort that made you turn back into five years old, three, even, and curl up in a blanket, propped on a strong knee and moulded into the crook of an arm, as a voice above lulled you with its baritone.

He thought of that. Then the pain increased, wrenching a gasp from his lips. He saw the garish red lips against the pasty white face, gleaming in the gloom. He tried to envision Bruce, to ground himself, to shut out the pain, but the name came out in a howl of agony, and then it didn't matter, because now the Joker was laughing, and he had lost, and the tears soothed nothing, stinging all the more with their salty spears.

Drip. Drop.

The darkness amplified the nervous scuffling, just round the staircase corner. As before, Batman didn't even feel the lack of night vision. No, that would just encumber, diminish the fine-tuned alertness to sound and smell. Besides, these little scampering, baby rats, were already drowning in their own growing hysteria. Let them. Better perhaps. Or not, charity, perhaps, was in order. Putting them out of their misery. He stopped. Waited. Patient. Arguing among themselves now, pulling invisible shortest straws to see who would be the lucky one to go check out the Bat.

To be a man.

A light squeak drew a little too close to the shadows, as the sole of the shoe twisted hesitantly. Batman pounced, claiming his prey, letting the gun clatter a noisy applause down the flight of steps. Diana sidestepped daintily beside him. He heard rather than saw the glint in her eye: the hunter's gaze. This is what it's about, boys. No mistaking.

No mistake. Come alone, they always said. Tell no one, they always said. Personal invitation to witness the doom of your protégé. A bargain you cannot resist. He felt the weight of the Exo-suit as it perched on his back, underneath the trench coat, an unassuming old man. The trench coat felt like a poor substitute for the black cloak he would have preferred. It didn't billow, it lay in panels, reaching to the ground, pinning each movement, each footstep, as he stepped through the echoing corridors of the building, wondering if the boy was dead, wondering how he would explain himself, wondering how he could have made this mistake over and over again. A female Clayface, more devious, perhaps. Certainly more dangerous. He wished with all his heart that he was young. He wished with all his heart that his heart would hold out just once more.

No mistake. The girl had chops, he'd give her that. One of those too young, too fresh, bright-eyed, pink-haired techno-intuited, techno-living geeks. She annoyed him. She reminded him vaguely of Barbara, with her nosy tendencies, with her naivety, with her ignorance for all the intelligence and brilliance and spunk she had been endowed with. The spunk was a detriment: she was brash, brasher than Barbara. No, of course, she was neo-age, self proclaimed and all revealing, walking into a room of Tees without so much as a disguise.

To be fair, neither did he, but to be fair, they would come out of it fearing his face, if they in their inebriated, half shot up state, remembered it at all. Maxine, the girl, with her shocking pink hair attempting to shock and deviate and distract, would only draw attention to herself, mark herself the next time she walked downtown, if she walked downtown at all. But she had chops, this was true. And where she functioned as a distraction, albeit unknowingly, it would be a distraction away from his identity.

The problem with Maxine, he had thought to himself, as they were making their way to the subway, the problem with Maxine was that she lived in a world too blurred between the virtual and the real. This was an arcade game, this was a quest for Grail Maximus Solarium three-cee-jay-oh-hundred. This was not going after a man who had the power to create earthquakes by twisting a dial on his wrist. The problem with Maxine is that when he looked at her, he saw again the bullet marks that had bit into Barbara's shoulder. When he saw that mace spray, he thought of an Andrea unembittered by the loss of her father, pulling little self-defence tricks on the unsuspecting. Then the bullet marks, again, there in the petite frame. He could not have that. She could not have that. Not another child lost to his tragedy.

This he thought about, as he channelled his rage and suppressed any possibility of panic into a well directed glare at the slimeball in front of him. He let his mind drift away from the shock of pink hair for a while as his narrowed eyes pierced into the now wide, frightened ones of the youth in front of him, as the rest began to back off towards the wall, out of the room, yes, even the big lump. He relayed once again in grimmest detail the wonderful intricacies of human anatomy, particularly in relation to pain, as he pressed not so lightly into a pressure point he knew would hurt, then numb, while lecturing on the process of induced localised paralysis.. He knew his voice could captivate. He captivated women, and it wasn't just because of the money. But perhaps the money helped to project that power, or was it the secrecy? The unknown? He projected the fathomless, and what were these punks more afraid of than that? Blithering, blubbering baboons, the lot of them.

Oh yes, he could still strike fear into the hearts of criminals. He wondered if his own would have held out more if he'd simply turned to easier methods of interrogation. Ones not so… physically taxing. He wondered if the satisfaction he reaped from it now was only because of the substitute it was for the raw vengeance he had once allowed to leak out at various times. No, it was truly satisfying, he thought, then with his smugness walked out with only a perfunctory answer to Maxine's pestering.

The problem with Maxine, was that she would not have been able to even witness him interrogate a suspect. She might not have been pampered any more than the rest of the average, even sub average teenage populace, except in terms of unreality. In this world, you could not just run up a programme to determine who was the serial killer in your school, the psychotic counsellor, the feared gangster, you needed a plan to stop them, and valedictorian would mean nothing in a fist fight. She breathed the virtual, he breathed dirt.

That, and she annoyed him.

He had no time to babysit her, ease her into the world she'd only just thought she got a glimpse of because of whatever impressions the boy had been giving her. How could the boy even let her know? To admit it? Secrecy was the essence of his identity. He had not even told Barbara until a belated effort to regain his ward back into his fold. No matter. He had no time to babysit, to nurse the wounded feelings of angry young men. That's what he had told himself then. He would ensure their physical wellbeing as much as possible. You could not ask for more than that.

He had been wrong, then. He would never admit it. Dick had said he was a prime manipulator, of emotions, of intents. Making kids believe that it was their choice, while he attached the puppet strings to limbs and joints, twisted and controlled them with the finest of disapproving frowns, finest marbled frozen unexpressiveness which he had gained over his years in the field. Masks on many levels, coverings, protections. Now he walked unprotected, cane in hand, with a black girl into a subway looking for all the world like a lost old man. Genial, lost old man, perhaps. Was that girl attempting to sneak onto the tracks? Was that allowed? Dick said he manipulated, perhaps it wasn't so bad to play to type.

The tunnel was cold, but the tracks weren't. He saw the scuff marks, the tell tale signs of human steps and prints, the condensation on the floor. He sniffed the air, alert once more. The grip on his cane increased, as he stuck to the walls and padded his way slowly forward, his black attire blending with the gloom. He took on the darkness, took on the cavernous expanse, posited himself into it, made himself part of it. This was what it was about. No mistaking. And the boy would be fine, the boy would be fine. He had to be.

He would make sure of it.

He made sure to let himself utter a low laugh as he emerged from the stairwell, knocking the nearest thug off his feet while allowing Diana to cover for any bullets shot by the frantic fools. They charged forward. Distraction, all of it, distraction, he thought to himself. No, surely he wouldn't want them blasting holes through his mogul palace of capitalism, not now, he was too vain for that. This foe, he wanted to be unruffled and frozen in time while the rest of the world succumbed to chaos. Already from the streets below Batman could hear the wailings of police vehicles, fire engines, and paramedic vans. How much time had passed between their arrival? Ten minutes? Less. Possibly less. Clark and Wally, Barbara against the rest of the city. They would have to manage. Land-lines in operation. Morse code. Low tech. Simple.

Perhaps Diana should've gone with them. But no. He appreciated her there. He wanted her there. He'd learned a lesson, a reason among many others why he was barrelling through human scum and wet-eared punks towards a young man not even out of his teens. He'd learned, perhaps, that good things came in twos. Or perhaps, not all good things, Dick would say, or Wally, or one of them, like alliterative names in Gotham. Huang Holdings. He reached the double doors at the end of the corridor, after having slung two pressurised batarangs at the faces of the guards and watching them fall. Guan Gong. Ignoring the spate of breathlessness, attributing that to adrenaline, to vigour, to life, he applied his heel to the middle of the doors in a well aimed sidekick, feeling the wood (for it was wood) splinter and break and yield.

Guan Gong. Batman crashed through, and landed with a halt, Diana beside him. Batman stood, shoulders heaving, glowering in a half crouch at the masked man who turned slowly from the windows to look at him. Impeccably dressed, hands clasped behind his back. The modern renaissance man. Guan Gong.

Yeah, sure.

Batman sneered, and uttered with unconcealed menace, "Luthor".


	26. Chapter 26: New Developments

a/n: apologies for taking this long between updates. I'd been gunning for resolving most everything within this chapter, but my characters wrote themselves and threw me a curve ball instead.

**Chapter 26:**

Gotham was a mess. Her men were just in position when the symbol began to shine, the message with it. Three seconds later conversation near any main street was impossible due to the blaring horns and irate shouts. Personally, Barbara wanted to scream at all of them, then find Bruce, and scream at him. It was a knee-jerk reaction, she knew, wanting to scream at Bruce. Which is why when she now sipped some coffee, black, from the thermal flask she'd brought with her. It would be a long night. And she'd promised Bruce. A boom sounded over head, and Barbara looked up to see a figure poised in mid-flight. It moved towards her, generating a turbulence which sent scraps of litter spinning off down the streets.

Barbara shielded her face from the grit that flew her way as Superman descended. Her face set determinedly as she nodded to two officers to the side of her. "We got the news. We'll handle the evacuation as much as possible. You handle the bombs." Superman gave a slight, tight bow in response. He looked extremely ruffled, and nodded again, as if he'd only just heard her.

"What, He too much for you?" she asked, arms akimbo tenting her trench coat pockets, knowing look on her face. Superman shot her a glance, eyes widening slightly before narrowing again. He looked away a moment later. Oh Bruce. What was new. Barbara let her arms fall back into place. "My men are at your disposal, once we have all the coordinates," she said.

"Right here, Babs," came a voice as the Flash zoomed into view, sheaf of papers in his hand. "I've gone round a few of the folks along the way to let them know too.

"Doesn't matter, they're all going to be called anyway," muttered Barbara as she reached for the telephone. Flash nodded and sped off, the old plastic phone booth cracking and swaying in his wake. Barbara looked at the scuffed metal box of a phone, paint long smudged off the keys, with the left panel taken clean off by her men just minutes prior. A certain rectangular slide jutted out from between wires and chips. A hack to patch through the city's payphone landline network. She dialled.

* * *

Luthor preened. Not a hair on his head, but able to strut around like any other peacock.

"Where's your big blue boy scout?"

Batman slowly straightened as his eyes narrowed. The fabric of his costume rustled as he bristled, back muscles flexing. "You know he's gone off to handle your diversions," he growled out, head still hunched forward. Luthor smiled in response as he took off his mask, teeth glinting in the shadows.

"Ah yes, of course."

"He's been… going on like that for ages," Terry muttered from the floor, face pinched in pain. Still, a smirk graced his face. "Why do they all…"

"Talk so much," Batman finished for him, advancing towards Luthor.

"Ah uh uh!" Luthor said, wagging his finger at Batman, pointing another to a raised sliver on his table. "You think a mere noise generator can stop me? One press of this button and the cluster buried near Gotham's fault line goes. With your precious city, your precious empire." Batman stopped midstride, poised on the defensive, and idly wished he'd put a cape on his current suit's design. Luthor's face darkened again. "Yes, Batman, your empire. The Romans? Wiped out by a horde of piddling barbarians. The Chinese? Destroyed by opium and by themselves. Those emperors lived like gods, but let me tell you, I was a god. I saw what gods saw, knew the thoughts of the universe-"

"-And you came back for a mere mortal? Should I be honoured?" sneered Batman, edging his foot slightly to better his position.

"You know, Batman, I always thought the Joker was the kook, always going on at you, when the real threat were powered beings who insisted on governing the rest of us. Ultimately you were human, you would die, and not even by some inter-galactic menace. Poison, a knife, a bad fall. You were human, you were fallible." He took a step towards Batman, menacing.

"I could've been a god! You were an insect. A puerile little thing Waller could've squashed if she wanted to. I could've squashed."

"But you didn't," murmured Batman. "Did it sting?" he couldn't help asking, words dipped in mock placation.

"Don't play words with me, Wayne," Luthor sneered. "To think it was you all along. Supplying money to your superfriends", he hissed out the last syllables before continuing, "Playing the clumsy, oafish, brainless spawn of a dead upperclass Gothamite. I'd thought it was Fox all along who'd ensured your company kept itself together." His voice curdled. "I should've known," he said, "not wanting to secure a multi-million dollar deal on those T-7s. That was the start, wasn't it? Compromise so your protection money worked?" He drew back. "I was meant to be Metropolis' favourite son! And I thought it was that raging alien in blue who stole that from me." He took another step forward.

He spoke again, levelling a finger at Batman, "but it was you. I wasted my life trying to eliminate the Kryptonian, when I should've just gone for his backer. You-"

Batman sprung. At the same time, a tiara swung through the air and clattered off the side of Luthor's head before two huge arms crushed his shoulders down to the ground. Luthor's words spilled through clenched teeth, droplets of blood forming from a cut in the temple. "I am now decades younger than you, ten times more intelligent, superior in every way-"

"And still stupid," Batman responded, "Aristophanes says it is forever." A second later smoke bombs flooded the room, and Luthor was thrown into a wall.

"But you should know that," Diana called out from the side, "man of culture." She moved towards the table.

"You put your hand near that thing, the bomb will go. Any biological signature other than mine will alert it," Luthor said, watching Diana's shadowy form cut through the room. A moment later his teeth rattle as hands reach out to grab him from behind, shoving him further down the room. "You've been… working out," he commented as the Batman glared down at him.

Batman held Luthor in his grip. "I don't know when you came back, or how you came back. Colour me ignorant. But you, you thought you could move in here, using theatrics to work Gotham's underworld into submission?"

"Why break a proven formula?" Luthor laughed, as the smoke cleared, the silhouette of the Dark Knight now clearly outlined.

Batman loomed over Luthor, scowl turning his eyes into mere slits. "You forgot you're doing it on my turf, Lex. That can't be very smart."

Just then, the Flash appeared from around the corner, "All done, Bats. We're clear here. Superman's just helping with ground control now." He nodded at Diana, who'd moved to helping Terry into a sitting position. Batman winced internally. The boy was in so much pain that his fists were clenched to the point of puncturing his skin. But the boy was breathing easier now. That, Batman could see. The tightness in his own chest lifted slightly.

Batman turned to the now slack limbed Luthor.

"You were saying, Luthor?"

Smirking up at him, Lex Luthor slackened further. "Oh Batman," Lex said. He patted Batman lightly on the cheek. "You really don't have the imagination, do you?" Luthor asked. Batman flung his hand away.

Just then, a crack reverberated past the windows.

"You think I would just let you beat me around like a toy?" Lex chuckled through chokes and coughs, Batman having pushed him into the ground as he ran to the windows and stared wildly out of them. Clouds of dust rose beyond the central business district buildings, in the far off massive apartment complexes. Batman whirled around, eyes wide in fury. Lex propped himself up by one elbow, nonchalant. "I've played you at your own game, Batman," smug superiority rolling off him in waves. "I was buying time, too."

"Dude, that is not cool," said Wally. Batman mirrored those sentiments as he hammered a punch into the side of Luthor's jaw, knocking him into the ground.

"I began with real estate, Batman," Lex said, sprawled on the floor, as Batman stalked out to the waiting Diana, who was cradling Terry McGinnis in her arms. "And real estate seems the way to go. You don't mind me taking yours, do you?"

Batman seethed from the doorway, clenching and unclenching his fists as a throb began to pound at his temple. Pummel Luthor as he might, it wouldn't do anything. Knowing the man, a smear campaign had long been put into place. Perfect, he thought with distaste. The apartment complexes, he recognised the district they belonged to. One of Wayne Enterprises' housing development projects for the underprivileged. Superman hadn't noticed it before. It would be just like Clark to miss out the finer details like that. Thrown off by a massive decoy, sure, but still thrown off. Batman tried to stare a hole into the wall he was facing. Even if Clark hadn't known… but it wasn't Clark's fault. Luthor continued blithely even as he watched the scowl on Batman's face harden further.

"You thought I was out to destroy the whole city? But what's the use of that. I care, Batman."

"You, care? You would destroy millions of lives," Batman ground out blackly from his position a few feet away.

"I would rebuild the lives of millions," countered Luthor easily. Batman shot him a look, which both held till Flash walked between them.

"Alright, Luthor, if you're really Luthor and not some clone," said Flash as he hauled the man up by an arm, "Let's get you into custody." In the meantime, Batman controlled his urge to reach for a batarang, fingers loosely twitching by the side of him, and he looked away.

"On what charges, boy? There is no evidence that I would be responsible-"

Flash frowned and prodded him, "Oh hey, don't you 'boy' me. You look quite a few years shy of me, chum."

"Let him go," said Batman, head down, voice low. "We can't trace him". Batman twisted his head to look at Luthor again, now standing. "Yet. This isn't over."

"True," scoffed Luthor, "But I'd be watching the news feeds, if I were you. As we speak, Lex Luthor is coming out of his long held obscurity and donating huge sums to the recent disaster in Gotham City, with his intense, sincere condolences. "

* * *

She'd been at the computer when the connection kicked out on her, before she realised that a wailing had come up from outside her window. She looked out. She looked down. "Son of a Gundam!" Max cried as she viewed the mass of vehicles and human traffic churn and swell along the street. A river of chaos. Then the sky had been lit ablaze with the largest batsymbol she'd ever seen, unblinking as a temporary hush fell over the city. Soon she saw police weaving in and out, directing people, and was that, Superman? And a red blur beside him. They left in the span of a few seconds, but Maxine remained peering out of the windows.

That was why she saw the buildings fall before she even heard the crash. A couple of streets down. She knew that neighbourhood. Her mouth fell open, and it became a blur from there. The lights, the people, the smells. Before she knew it, she was shoving people out of the way, ducking into side streets to avoid the police who were trying to direct the crowd further, back, away from her goal. She didn't stop till she saw the rubbled heaps of concrete and steel surrounding in a cloud of dust that still hadn't settled.

Complex 456D, gone. Decimated completely. The world receded into a pin of darkness for a moment, Maxine Gibson a pinprick speck on it.

Max felt her knees weaken as paramedics and rescue teams rushed past her. She leaned into the sign post, wishing it were a giant crutch, oblivious to the officer in front of her who was trying to get away. She took a step forward instead, and began picking pieces away from the mound of crumbled concrete slabs in front of her. She was surprised when she soon found another hand working away beside her. For a moment she thought she was seeing double, or gone crazy, finally. Idly she thought that this was what being shell shocked was like. Soon though, she realised that the arm beside her belonged to another girl. Max looked up and behind her, and saw a line of people, citizens of Gotham, who'd come from the busy streets ahead, and were now helping to clear and search the area.

In a few hours, it didn't matter who you were, if you'd come back from the concert halls, or from the hotdog stand on the way home from work. Doctor, accountant, lawyer, grocer, high school genius and daughter of two divorcees, they were covered in grey, on this side of the disaster zone. A fire had broken out in another demolished complex further on. All one saw was trail after trail of ashy smoke and dust which blotted out the light of what streetlamps had been unharmed.

By the time Maxine had got home, her hands felt as raw as her throat did. As her throat wanted to. Someone had said Superman had shown up on the scene, and was helping to find survivors. They said it was better that way, that they'd be quicker in their search. But even Superman would have to be careful, she figured. You couldn't go too fast. One wrong shift, and more could come collapsing. The big dude knew that, she figured. But still. She stumbled into the shower, back of her head pressed into the cool tiles as a singular sob wrenched itself from her throat.

Mrs Porter, Old Benjy, Jimbo, Hanks, Karl, Sasha, Marty, Peggi, Tracie, everyone, gone. Just like that. First Terry had gone missing, Batman with him, obviously. Now this. She thought again of that concrete hub, with the void decks underneath, as they'd called them. Concrete spaces underneath the blocks of flats. Perfect for a game of catch. Playing hide and seek through there, happier times, when her parents were still together.

Then something had happened… they'd never talked about it, and Mom had moved out with her sister and her, and Dad moved to the other side of town. Away from them, into the wonderful world of cyberspace, as she liked to tell herself. All her friends, though, they still lived there, or at least, they used to. She saw them again now. Their smiles. Would they be alive? People were camped out in large makeshift tents, but Maxine hadn't spotted anyone in the sea of faces.

The faces swam through the sea of misted glass and water running down it. Merging into one image. The Bat Symbol. Was Terry back? Was the old man up to something? Maxine considered this as she rinsed out her hair. By the time she'd finished, the blip on her computer screen told her that the connection was back up. Whatever had been interfering with it was switched off by now. She turned away from the windows. Her eyes had been continually drawn to it as she padded across the linoleum floor of the kitchenette, coffee mug in hand. The light from the Bat Symbol still illuminated the clouds above, and now cast light on the pocket of flattened ground Maxine would not, could not look at.

High School Valedictorian, all-time first rate gamer, ultrageek. Terry as Batman was super-cool. But now Terry was lost, hurt, maybe, and what good would she do in a scrap? Probably be reckless, probably get him into further trouble, probably royally cheese the old man off. But that was before, when there was a reset button, a pause button, a play button. She thought of all the children sleeping in their beds, who would never get to play a game, never get to play hide and seek out there like she had.

She had to contact Wayne. But how to make him listen? Positioning scrambling and encryption she could do in a snap, she'd already got her bases covered for basic avoidance of online bots and data parties. But calling him? No, he'd recognise her voice instantly. And if Superman or someone heard, and tipped him off, he'd ignore her flat out. She rested her chin on a fist as she sat cross legged on the chair, sipping at her coffee mug. She'd need a text-voice programme, a good one, a combination of the voices already out there on the market. She'd need an avatar. She'd need a name. Max set the coffee mug down, and got to work.

* * *

"So, it's Luthor."

"Wally."

"So… he kinda got us this time, huh."

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose in an fast failing attempt to reign in his temper. "Wally," he said again, barely letting the words out with his breath.

"So… are we royally screwed over, or what?"

" Shut up, Wally," said Bruce, pinning his gaze on the computer screen as the feed headlines raced across.

"Hey!" Wally said from the side, "I didn't say anything this time!"

Bruce gave a perturbed glance around. "See," said Wally, "That wasn't me, I'm here," he pointed, "voice there." Wally pointed again. Across the cave, Terrance McGinnis was just easing himself into a sitting position. A drip attached to his arm, pale and bathed in the stark light of the surgeon's table, he looked even more sickly. Bruce avoided letting a look of concern pass over his face by sliding it into a disapproving glower. It seemed to work. The boy had stopped trying to kill himself in an attempt to stand up, at least.

"You're in no condition to move, Terry," said Bruce, tone taking a gruffer edge than he had intended. He took a half retrospective step back, and wondered if he was tunnelling himself in again, unable to consider the peripherals. It happened, often, he realised, with those he… allowed himself to value… emotionally. Even Wally would- Wally would especially notice, if he hadn't been able to even distinguish between the voices of his protégé and his old colleague.

Why? Luthor.

People like Luthor always made things personal. It was how they functioned. No professional partnership without a sense of smug one-up against the other, like some childish playground cocksure bully. Bruce had made the call to the Wayne Foundation as soon as he could, but it had still been too late. Luthor had sent his release to the press just in time for it to arrive as the buildings went down. The man had planned, played out Clark with an ingenious smokescreen of timed explosives. No doubt Clark would ensure that the rescue operations went at double its usual speed, maybe even call Leaguers in on the city (as much as that galled). Enough people to survive, enough people to get angry, enough for character assassination. Enough to be grateful to Lex Luthor, misdeeds erased through the sands of time.

Bruce had let Luthor out plan him, tune him up like a violin and played him by using his boy as a pawn. His… child? He looked at Terry again, brows furrowing. He leaned his forehead etched with shadows lightly on the base of his palm which rose to press against it.  
"Look, Bruce," began Terry as he tried to shift on the table.

"What?" it came out unexpectedly forced and curt, so much so that Terry's eyes flickered concern, brows drawn slightly together. What was the boy doing? He was still in too much pain to unclench his fists yet and he still wanted to-

"I got this," Terry said as he opened one palm, to reveal a small metal chip. He opened the other, revealing another. "And this. You think it might help?" He grinned sheepishly at Bruce, "during the scuffle, after Wonder Woman broke me out of the cuffs. I.."

Just then the screen flickered, and an alert window appeared in the top left. Bruce straightened.

"I'm here to help," a computerised voice said. Slightly husky, female, electronic. Age undeterminable.

"Whoa-oh, mysterious internet chick!" Wally said, nodding a grin at Terry.

Instantly suspicious, Bruce rose from his chair. A pause, which dragged, till the voice came again. "You can type if you want. This is a secure line." Great. Another smart aleck, when he already had two to deal with. Bruce arched an eyebrow at that. How very understanding. A secure line, indeed. He began to wonder if he shouldn't gather more security tech for the Batcomputer clusters. Everyone seemed to be hacking through it these days. He reached for the keys.

'Who are you?' he tapped out, grim look still not leaving his face. A pause now on the other side, before the voice spoke, this time sending forward a masked avatar, with pale, luminescent green porcelain features, and a wave of lines radiating back from the hair line.

"You can call me Oracle." The electronic voice sounded oddly pleased with itself.

"Oracle?" Bruce harrumphed, and looked askance at Diana. "This isn't one of yours, is it?" She shook her head, perturbed. He turned back to the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard.


	27. Chapter 27: Delphi's Promise

a/n: this is the end of the line, folks! do let me know what you think (: there may/may not be an epilogue tagged on after this, but I'm counting this as complete.

**Chapter 27**

The miniature disc lay inconspicuous, gleaming under the decrypto-analyser. Diana pursed her lips at the item which had ignited Bruce's anger in the past few weeks. The man in question was engaged in conversation with the electronic avatar flickering on the Bat-computer's screen. She glanced over to him, watching as his rigid shoulders moved back and forth with the force of his typing. The suit held him well. He held himself well, for such an aged warrior. A twinge of pain, once again, at the thought that Bruce had let himself grow so old so quickly. Once, she wouldn't have been surprised if he had secretly wished to expedite the process. Now, he seemed to have almost regained a significant quarter of his youth, based on how his hands rushed across the keys and dials peppering the Bat-computer's console.

"So," he said, "you know who I am?" The voice fed through a distort, though Bruce suspected that wouldn't make a difference to The Oracle. The wonders of old technology, the blundering interference of the young. It grated.

"With all due respect, sir," Oracle spoke, "I do. I know who you are, and like I said, sir, I'm here to help."

"Sir," Terry said, smirk on his lips. Bruce's scowl deepened, his back reverting back to ramrod straightness as he stood upright. A blinking light in a side panel caught his attention. He glanced at the screen, and his eyes seemed to shutter in a weary resignation Diana had not seen line his face since the start of the night. He seemed to wince internally, even as his shoulders succumbed to a slight sag. He opened them fully again, rolled them heavenward for a fraction of a moment, pressing his lips together in a cragged line. Diana realised it was indecision, before Bruce reached for a console button and tapped it.

"I'm sending you the decryption. I need files," he muttered, jaw tight.

"You need stuff to smear Luthor's cred with," came the voice in return. Bruce lifted a corner of his lip in a sneer at 'stuff'.

"She's young," he said, shaking his head, with the faintest hint of a grim smirk on his face. He looked at Terry, who had managed to stay upright despite the shower of glowers sent by his mentor in the past fifteen minutes, giving up on the glare ante for now. The boy was stubborn. Too stubborn. But it was his stubbornness which kept him alive, kept Bruce alive, Bruce reminded himself. A look of recognition, barely perceptible, passed over the youth's face. Bruce had to check himself to make sure it wasn't just a miniature grimace.

"Yeah?" Terry asked, voice trying to maintain its lightness.

"'Yeah'," Bruce mimicked, gravel modulating into a false whine, "'stuff', and 'cred'?"

"Young, and brilliant, sir," Oracle's voice rattled out from behind them. Bruce's head whipped around to the screen. "I've used the decrypt on the systems you wanted me to check out. I might have found something," Oracle continued. It, she, was quick.

"Good. Send it over," Bruce said, all business, all hard edged. The avatar shimmered.

"Only if you let me handle how to deal with Luthor." Bruce's eyebrow arched of its own accord. Diana couldn't help the edges of her lips curving as she watched him. He had taken to rolling his eyes again.

"You," he said, shortly.

"Young, and brilliant," Oracle repeated, "And I know you're due for an emergency press conference soon. Luthor's beating you to it, by the way." A news feed flashed up across the screen, confirming her words. Bruce had known this, but would've rather had information on hand to throw in Luthor's smug, slimy face.

"Just this once…" he said, pausing before he said, "Maxine."

Terry straightened abruptly, then doubled over in agony at his sudden exertion. Bruce vaguely heard a harshly hissed, 'forget I said anything,' from over his shoulder, but refrained from turning back to look. The Oracle remained silent, avatar seeming to blink.

"How.. did.. you," the words were slow in coming.

"I've spent a lifetime figuring out the identities of many of my co-workers, Gibson. Get on the programme if you wish to." Bruce's gravel sounded out, voice scraping through the cave as his tone became sharper. "Evidently I can't stop you this time," he said, air of resignation hanging about him again.

"Is Terry-?"

"Don't you have work to do?" Bruce cut past her question. The avatar flickered, as if hesitant.

"Right. Best of luck, Sir. Oracle out." The avatar flickered again, then puttered out of the screen. Bruce let out a sigh, breath fogging the air in front of him slightly.

"At least she's not out there getting herself killed," he murmured at the screen, now only filled with parading images of the destruction at the old neo-housing district. The mask muffled his voice, and he felt his breath moisten underneath the fabric as another thought wafted past. Strange. He'd thought something similar about Barbara when he had decided to take her under his wing. Clark had activated the comlink while on site, saying that it looked much worse than it really was. Apparently, a fire alarm had gone off ten minutes before the buildings began to fall, and the main difficulty now was in finding missing folk who had scattered into the night's mob as soon as the structures began to crack. Mercifully few bodies under the rubble, in the end. Mercifully few was not a zero casualty rate, and Bruce's eyes blistered at the thought. He dialled a number. Barbara's voice patched through.

"Superman says most had been evacuated before the collapse," he said, evading the formalities. It really only established just how much Luthor had planned things down to the last detail.

"Tell that to search and rescue. We're busy here trying to control the crowd as it is. We've had to kettle some of the rowdier ones off as well," her voice was remarkably direct.

"It was, unexpected," he tried, sounding it out, hating himself for even uttering those syllables which had branded him incompetent.

"So were the bombs, from what I recall." She was taking it well, even more than him, Bruce realised.

"Batman," she said. Her voice seemed to have trouble getting past the name, and Bruce sympathised. "You're not God," she said, strain in voice coming through now. "Sometimes I wish you were, but you're not. Accept that. And you're not alone. Accept that too. We'll get through this. Gotham, will get through this. Gordon out." Bruce was left blinking at the keyboard, brows crinkled at the thought of having been given a pep talk, however disparaging, by… an ex…partner.

"Wow… she sounded almost like you, Diana," Wally murmured. "Fiery. She's like that in the field sometimes too, y'know." Bruce snorted. Wally had no idea, Bruce mused to himself, letting a half disgruntled look land and sink into his face.

Less jawing. No, he corrected himself, internally. More jawing. But that was for later. He had a suit to select. A corporate power suit. He nodded at Terry, who was now inching his way off the table. The bandages were made of extra malleable polymer fabric. They would hold, and Terry's ribs with it. The leg had been set in a cast. Thanks to accelerated bio-enzymes in the salve, the burn marks along his forearms and shoulders were already fading. Bruce contained a shudder at what those could have been, suddenly thankful.

"Come on," he said, holding a hand out to his protégé. Terry took it, and was soon supported between Bruce and Diana as they made their way up the stairs. They brought him to a room Wally had helped prepare just minutes before, and laid him on the bed. Any protests from Terry were quelled by a look from Bruce, but it softened now, as he positioned the drip. "Well done," he uttered softly. "Now, rest."

Bruce left the room. Diana turned round before she walked past the doorway as well, sending Terry a gentle smile. Terry watched and wondered how, for the first time, the old man's back was able to radiate not just anger, but approval.

* * *

In the streets of Hong Kong, in the blazing heat of the afternoon, a man staggered into the streets. An opera mask covered his features. He proclaimed his name, Guan Gong. He had a canister of sickly yellow liquid with him. He splashed it over himself. He would be a martyr, for the cause. For the brethren over the world, watching. The liquid over him caught fire, swept ablaze at the fall of the smallest spark. He knelt as the flames consumed him. By the time he had been doused, only a charred body remained, and a molten microship embedded near the base of his skull.

What J'onn Jonnz heard, in the screams of the dying man's mind, fighting what seeming control he'd been put under, was the man's name:

Jimmy Lin.

It would soon be on the global feeds, but J'onn patched the information through to Gotham's Commissioner of Police, and Bruce Wayne.

* * *

"And I pledge to the citizens of Gotham, that I will do my best to aid, to rebuild the lives of anyone who has lost a friend, a mother, a father, a son, a daughter. Anyone who has been widowed, orphaned, made childless, in this astonishing accident. You have my word," said Luthor, sympathy radiating from his face as it glowed under the media floodlights, backlit by the expanse that was Gotham's downtown.

"Mr. Luthor, what do your assurances mean when you have been away for so long?" a man called out from among the press. Lex Luthor schooled his face into careful benignity before opening his mouth, but the voice came again. "Mr Luthor," the reporter said, "your last appearance was an invasion with… Darkseid? More than thirty years ago. Can you confirm this?"

Irritation simmered in Luthor's eyes, but his face remained genial as he leaned towards the microphone. "Yes, I had been able to secure Darkseid away from humanity, which had left both him and myself in… stasis. What… encased me deposited me back on earth three years ago." He'd have to thank the fool, Metron, who'd appeared some fine day in belated concern. Now the New god was stuck in the Source Wall too.

"Why didn't you make an appearance back then?" the question came flying. Luthor's face turned sorrowful, and held up a hand to stall.

"I thought then, the world had moved on," he said, voice muted, "that perhaps it would not do to have me leave obscurity. I had done many wrong things in my previous time, and perhaps," he paused, took a breath, then continued. "Perhaps," his voice even lower, "even saving the world would not acquit me." Murmurs ran through the crowd. Luthor now smiled, eyes softening. The glare of the lights made his whole being seem to appear to glow. People from the streets hayd been gathering in droves around the podium, unwilling to head back to their homes. Luthor's voice, bass, soothing, travelled through electronics and filtered through the screens of the millions who had returned to their dwellings. Gotham was riveted.

Bruce Wayne was bored. He had sat through most of the speech, as they drove along the side streets to where Luthor's podium had been set up, at the base of Ai-lat's Gotham branch. Luthor must have managed to secure his shares through Huang Holdings. Villainy, Bruce concluded, was horrifically passé. And Luthor had no poetry.

"It is unfortunate," Luthor continued, "that so many in Gotham have fallen prey to the machinations of bribery and backdoor underworld dealings. Why, I had thought to postpone my appearance even longer, once I heard that Gotham was in the grip of the Chinese mafia, a grip that even Bruce Wayne could not get out of." At that moment, Bruce stepped out of his car. The back of the crowd noticed him first. Mutters and murmurs arose, some antagonistic, some confused. His stature, though shrunken with age, was however still imposing. A glance like flint, and the crowd began to part for him, slowly but surely. Luthor looked up from the press, caught sight of him, and smiled. Diana followed beside him.

"Ah yes, but Bruce Wayne has been involved in shady dealings of his own, hasn't he?" called out Luthor as he stood sneering down at Bruce. Luthor opened his arms to the crowd, then levelled a finger at Bruce. "I would like to ask Mr. Wayne, if he can explain the lies he's given to the poor, disadvantaged of Gotham. That he, in a bid to secure his reputation as philanthropist, and to secure his pockets, would approve of the use of unsound building materials, with millions of lives at stake… is abominable." Bruce narrowed his eyes at the accusation, but remained silent. The murmurs among the crowd bubbled again.

Newsbots flew towards Bruce.

"I did no such thing," he said lowly, calmly.

"Then how do you explain—" Luthor advanced, before abruptly shutting his mouth as his attention was drawn to the screening of live coverage on the side. Bruce turned to look as well.

"They'll fall right at my feet," the voice came, Luthor's voice. In the meantime, the Luthor on the screen looked increasingly flabbergasted.

"Nanobots. Lovely things. Self destruct, too, once they've done their job of eating through concrete. And steel. Oh Gotham, how you'll love me."

"That's preposterous, that's, that's-" blustered Luthor as the recording came through, before the whole projection blinked out, and was replaced with words, the edges highlighted in neon green.

"We. Are. Oracle," it said, before switching to Luthor's face again. Only this time, it replayed the words 'Oh Gotham', 'Oh Gotham', 'Oh Gotham', modulated into a grainy singsong. Soon, more words followed, along with repeated footage of Luthor's previous speeches. A beat was introduced, pulsing away to the words of what was evidently a song. The crowd began to laugh. 'Right, Riiiiight, Riiiight at my feeet', the words wafted over, and Bruce allowed himself to grin viciously as he turned back to Luthor.

"You wanted to be remembered, didn't you Luthor?" he said, now safe from the press microphones. "You thought, perhaps, you'd be forgotten in a few short generations. Did it hurt, Luthor," Bruce said, as he let his words linger in front of the now hunched Luthor, "to realise that really, you'd been forgotten in one?" Was Luthor actually frothing? Bruce couldn't be sure in the harsh glare of the lights. He hoped he was.

"You might be young, Luthor. Younger. But you're stuck in the past. All that anti-life equation didn't help you keep track of Earth.

"You didn't realise that Andy Warhol's fifteen minutes of fame just became fifteen seconds five years ago.

"You didn't realise just how much we live in a world of sound bites."

The whites of Luthors eyes seemed to exceed their usual span has he stared at Bruce. "What is the meaning of this?" Luthor all but screamed. Bruce tilted his head as he considered him, holding his smirk so long that his cheeks had begun to smart. He gave a look of nonchalance, and shrugged.

"This?" Bruce said. "I believe this is what we call 'viral'." He continued. "Perhaps you didn't know that, but like I said, Luthor, stuck in past.

"So stuck, in fact, that you forgot that the world _has_ moved on, and so have I." Bruce had reached the edge of the podium by now, and Luthor seemed crouched so near him, hands almost clawing the floor, that Bruce could now see the sweat drops plastered along his forehead.

"You forgot that I have _friends_, Luthor," Bruce said, leaning towards him.

Luthor's eyes bulged further with great success. Bruce straightened himself, and gave another shrug, and wave of the hand as he proceeded past. "But congratulations," he said over his shoulder, "I do believe you've secured yourself in the hearts of this generation's pop culture. For this week, at least." The crowd was laughing uproariously now, as the auto-tuned song began looping itself. Bruce had no doubt that Max had manage to secure the help of thousands of online hacks who would ensure that it went viral in seconds. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Gotham police teams came and surrounded Lex Luthor, who looked about to have a seizure. Bruce secretly hoped that he would. But no, life was never so acquiescing, especially not after the huge favour he seemed to have been given.

As he got into the car, Bruce looked back at the crowd, now jeering and booing at Luthor as he was being led off the stage. Never doubt the human spirit, he'd told someone once, or something to that effect. He'd forgotten it himself, once upon a time. He'd forgotten his own, in another life, his other life. He felt the warmth radiating from Diana as she paced beside him. Gotham was in ashes. This was true. But Gotham would rise again, and he would be there to rise with it.

"Mary McGinnis has been informed about her son's well being, personally, as requested," said Wally with a smile as they approached the car. Bruce looked at him. Dressed in his usual casual attire, a checked green shirt over a t-shirt. Jeans, but not quite the latest stylish cut. More sober. Hair greyed, wrinkles radiating from the corners of his eyes. They grew, they grew old. He looked at Diana. Even her, he mused, had to grow, had to age, even if it never showed outwardly. To wish for the past, in the face of a rapidly changing present… was folly. He would make do, as always, and as Gotham would.

The bare hints of dawn could be seen from glimpses of the bay. It tinted Gotham's purple sky with the red that it once was. It would rain, and seeds would grow. Bruce's brows drew together as he caught himself thinking this, when a hand was placed over his. He allowed them to relax as he turned his head to look at Diana, shoulders settling into the back of the seat. Bruce smiled.

Clark and Barbara were waiting at the manor. The force had been put on a round the clock rota now, Superman had helped clear an astounding amount of the debris, and the Commish needed a coffee break. It was up to the paramedics now. It was up to the city. No word from the mafia since the broadcast from Hong Kong had made its way to American shores. They would be cleaned up after. For now, the group entered through the hallway of Wayne Manor.

Bruce's eyelids slid shut in what he recognised was relief, as they reached the kitchen. So ordinary. So strangely ordinary, despite the carnage lingering in the back of his mind. Coffee. Tea. Sugar. Soup. Domesticity had never been his forte, but here, among… friends. This was different.

Wayne Manor had always been dark, darker after Alfred died, the shadows seeping past every corner in its never waning grip on him. Now with the sun rising, it seemed bright again. He remembered Dick playing along that counter, he remembered Tim. He remembered Tim, again, in the hospital bed, also old, also greying, smiling, again. Old Man. Yes. But not useless, and not yet dead. No, not quite. Ace padded round the corner, and nudged Bruce's hand with his nose, whining softly. Bruce's hand ruffled the top of Ace's head as he looked out the kitchen window. Yes, it was a new day. They'd won. He looked around. Yes. It wasn't such a lonely place, after all. Yes.

_-fin-_


End file.
